A Gentle Knock at the Door
by harpomarx
Summary: After being tortured and falsely imprisoned for Cameron’s murder, House attempts to reclaim his life and career. Just as his life is getting back on track, he receives disturbing news that threatens to disrupt his recovery. Sequel to DIY Sheep's Contract
1. Chapter 1: A Gentle Knock at the Door

**A Gentle Knock at the Door**

_A sequel to Priority's Exigencies, which is a sequel to DIYSheep's The Contract._

_After being tortured and falsely imprisoned for Cameron's murder, House attempts to reclaim his life and career. Just as his life is getting back on track, he receives disturbing news that threatens to disrupt his recovery._

**Chapter 1: A Gentle Knock at the Door**

**A**s he leaned back in his chair, his feet propped up on the ottoman and his crutches tossed carelessly on the floor, Greg House heard the gentle knock on the door, followed by the familiar "Hi, it's me." He looked up from the medical journal he was reading. Peering over his reading glasses, he saw James Wilson's head, followed by the rest of him, entering House's office, ambling across the floor and sliding into the chair across from the desk.

Something wasn't right. The words were the same, the mannerisms the same, but something was troubling Wilson. His "Hi, it's me," was not the usual breezy greeting, or even the more hesitant approach he used when he thought House might be asleep or in pain. This was different. His body was braced, tension in his neck, his jaw slightly clenched.

Wilson stared intently at the top of House's desk, not saying a word. His brow dark, his hands fidgeting, he seemed lost in his own thoughts, and he telegraphed bad news. House felt his chest constrict and his breath stop.

They sat silently for a minute. House pretended to go back to reading, but his mind was wandering. What was it? What was worrying Wilson this much? He couldn't put his finger on it, but somehow he knew this wasn't a difficult patient or interoffice politics. It had to do with him, with House, and with what he was just now barely beginning to put behind him. He was pretty sure he didn't want to know what it was. And yet… well, Gregory House never could resist a mystery.

He waited. Wilson just stared. Sighing with annoyance, and trying to cover up his own growing anxiety, House finally slapped the journal onto the desk, took off his glasses and leaned forward.

"Spit it out. Whatever it is, get it over with."

Wilson looked up, his eyes troubled. He took a breath and shook his head. This wasn't going to be easy. But then, what was ever easy where House was concerned?

"There's a patient…" he started, slowly. For a fraction of a second, House's spirits lifted. Maybe he'd misinterpreted Wilson's body language. Maybe it really was just work-related. But then, quietly, Wilson continued: "…you need to know about." He paused and drew a breath.

A patient? Still vaguely hopeful, House tried to convince himself that this was Wilson's way of bringing him an unusual case. But he didn't believe it. What if it was something to do with Thompson?… House's heart seemed to pause again… What? A patient? One of the prison guards perhaps? Boot Boy? He couldn't seem to catch his breath. Get to the point, Wilson. I can't take this. Say _something_. House inspected Wilson's face, searching for the clues he didn't want to find.

Finally, the words began to tumble out. "I don't know how to tell you this. Bear with me. Cuddy just told me we had a patient sent over this morning from the women's prison. She is… uh… _was… _she was a journalist. _New York Times_. She was investigating your case—didn't believe you'd killed Cameron—and I guess she got too close."

House heard the words, but so far nothing made any sense. What the hell was going on?

"I'm not explaining this very well. Sorry. Even after you were released from prison, the FBI kept digging into Thompson's life. They searched his home, his offices, his car. Just last week, hidden away, they found… another contract… and hundreds more DVDs. The name on the contract was Maureen Adler."

Wilson didn't look up. He didn't want to see the expression on House's face.

"From what they could tell, Thompson did to her pretty much what he did to you. Except this time, he did it because she was supporting you and trying to win your release. He… he had her husband killed, and, like you, she went to prison for the murder. We may never know everything that was done to her in the last three years."

"Of course," he added quietly, glancing at House's stricken face, "I'm sure you have a better idea than anyone else could what she's been through. Apparently, what kept her going was fear for her little girl. After Thompson was killed and you were released, the goons must have had orders to keep after her—all this time she's still been suffering. When the FBI finally tracked her down last week, and began working to release her… they… Thompson's people… they murdered her child. A little girl—five years old. I guess to try to keep Adler from talking. I don't know. It's horrendous."

Wilson slumped in the chair, head down.

House just stared at Wilson. And stared. He couldn't begin to imagine anyone else going through what he'd endured. Flashes of his own torment flitted through his mind. Wincing, he blinked them away, only to have other images take their place.

Wilson saw the struggle on House's face. He hated having to tell House this news. And there was no telling what House would do with the information. He had to be told—he'd hear about it anyway—but Wilson just dreaded the idea that this was going to bring back all the pain and misery, just as House was beginning to try to gain some kind of peace.

The two friends remained silent as Wilson allowed House time to process what he'd been told.

Even though there was no point in getting angry—what good would his anger do, anyway?—it certainly wouldn't change the circumstances—House felt himself flushing with rage. Rage at Thompson for the madness, the money, the power. For killing Cameron, for destroying his own body, for the unceasing pain, for the anguish caused. And now this. Someone else's suffering. Great. Just what he needed to make his life complete—guilt. When it was just him living through days and nights of agony, he could deal with it on some level. His choice. His decision. And at least people he cared about—most of them, anyway—had survived.

But this new jolt—how the hell should he react? After an eternity, House composed his battered face and tried to take control of his breathing.

"And what am I supposed to do about it?" he asked tersely, as he felt his body tensing again, the mangled fingers of his right hand clenching into an approximation of a fist. Ever since he'd emerged from the catatonia, he'd feared that Thompson would come back, would get him again, that he'd slip back into that hell. While his head told him it couldn't happen—could it?—his fragile emotions were constantly on alert that it was all starting over again. Was this the beginning of the next stage? Someone else's blood on his conscience? Someone else's pain and anguish?

Wilson paused. "I don't know, House. I don't know." Wilson looked away from his friend's tormented face. "Of all the gin joints in all the world…" he muttered. If there'd just been a way to keep him from knowing about Maureen Adler. Not fair, he thought. Just not fair. But when had life been fair to Greg House?

*** * * ***

**L**ong after they thought they'd found all of Robert Thompson's horrifying little secrets, this came up. Special Agent Roberts couldn't believe they'd missed it. Nearly three years after Thompson's death, more than two after rescuing Dr. Gregory House from that hellhole of a prison, there was more to discover. Buried in the tons of paper—the evil bastard kept remarkable records, thank God—was the lease to a storage space, paid in advance for five years. It took some doing to get Storage Inn to let them impound the contents. Funny how persnickety people can be when they've been paid enough.

And so it started all over again. Sorting through the newly discovered documents, finding another cache of DVDs, discovering more horror, more corruption and more despair. At first, Roberts thought the DVDs would be more of the same—hours and hours of Dr. House being tortured, sexually abused, humiliated. The thought of having to see any more of what one deranged man could do to another human being made him physically ill. But he knew it was part of his job.

Unlike the previous DVDs, these were unmarked. He randomly selected one and slid it into the player in his office. Sure enough, there was a prison cell, dark, dank, with a small figure huddled into the corner. But wait. That wasn't House. That was… who was it? It was a woman, a small woman, her back to the camera, her hands clasping her head, just as House's so often had. Roberts felt his stomach turn.

It took a few days, but Roberts and his partner, Agent Matthews, eventually found a name. And a contract, like House's, with clauses of pain and suffering, signed in blood.

"We've got a situation here," he heard himself saying to his boss, Jared Eaton. "You remember the House case...? Yeah, well. Didn't think you'd forget it… Well, apparently, Thompson had another victim, a Maureen Adler—Rainie Adler…" He listened to his cell phone as Everson erupted on the other end. "No, sir, we don't know. In prison somewhere. Same kind of thing… yes, hours and hours of recordings… maybe we'll be lucky and find the abuse has stopped since Thompson died."

But they weren't lucky. Locked up in solitary at the West Jersey State Correctional Institution For Women, Adler was eventually discovered cowering—just as they'd found House—in a dark, filthy, smelly cell, her body shattered, her mind no longer able to function. But this time, there was no friend like James Wilson to help her make the transition back to reality. She refused to believe it was all over. And in her case, sadly, it wasn't.

Moving quickly, the FBI agents arrested everyone whose name they found in the storage unit—guards, trustees, doctors. Once they had cleaned out the drek, they got Adler to the new staff at the prison hospital. Throughout, Roberts had a horrible feeling of déjà vu.

Teams of agents pored over the documents, looking for information about Adler and why she'd been subjected to Thompson's insanity. Finally, in a file marked "Adler Research," they found it. She'd been a newspaper reporter—a good one, too—at _The New York Times_. Something about the House case had troubled her, so she began digging. But whether through good journalism, bad luck, fate or fluke, she'd stumbled on the Thompson connection. And he, with his tentacles everywhere, had reached out and dealt her life the same kind of blow she was investigating.

Now she lay, as House had, gravely ill in the prison hospital, her body and mind broken, an infection raging. And someone would eventually have to deal her another blow. Almost as soon as the FBI began arresting Thompson's remaining people, someone broke into the foster home where Rainie Adler's little daughter was living and choked the life out of her.

*** * * * **

**N**ow what? Foreman, Chase and Devi Rajghatta sat around the conference table, glancing every so often at the closed door that led to House's office. Dr. Wilson had been in there since 9:15, more than an hour; it was clear something was up. Foreman drummed his fingers impatiently on the table; Chase looked absently through the patient files; Devi tried making some notes on a legal pad, aware that she was having trouble concentrating.

"I say we go in there. We've got a patient, and House needs to do his job," said Foreman abruptly.

Chase looked up, suddenly annoyed. "You've never been the most tactful person, have you, Foreman? Don't you think it's pretty obvious something's going on? If we're going to disturb them, let's at least be considerate about it."

"Why don't we call over there?" suggested Devi. "That way, it's clear we need his attention, but we're not barging in."

"Works for me," said Chase before Foreman had a chance to protest, and reached for the phone. He pressed House's extension and the speaker button, and waited. After three rings, House picked up. "Yeah. What is it?" His voice, quiet since… well, since… was now barely audible.

"Hey, House. Sorry to bother you, but we've got a new patient and need your input to get going."

There was a long pause on the other end. "Coming. I'll be there in a minute," said House, disconnecting.

"Are you sure you're up to this?" asked Wilson. For nearly an hour, House had sat, almost without moving, as he contemplated this new development.

"Doesn't matter, does it?" sighed House. "Whether or not I'm up to it, I have a job to do. It's not fair to this patient if I'm lost in my past or pondering my future." With a grunt, House hoisted himself up on his crutches, standing for a moment to get his balance and pull himself together before walking to the connecting door and flinging it open.

"`Morning, people!" he said as heartily as he could manage. "What have we got?"

*** * * * **

"**H**ow'd he take it?" Cuddy searched Wilson's face. From the moment Rainie Adler was brought to the ER by a couple of FBI agents this morning, Cuddy had known life was about to get complicated. Again.

She remembered Maureen Adler clearly from four years before, the earnest newspaper reporter digging into the House case, interviewing everyone who was willing to be interviewed—from hospital personnel to former patients—and reading every case file that House had been connected with during his tenure at PPTH. Cuddy could picture her face as she sat on the opposite side of the desk, asking shrewd and probing questions. She remembered a petite woman with dark, curly hair and large hazel eyes, and a few freckles that dotted her cheekbones.

There had been a determination to her that Cuddy found intriguing. Rainie Adler struck Cuddy as the type of person who didn't suffer fools gladly, and although Rainie never actually said it, Cuddy suspected that she was attempting to exonerate Greg House. If that was indeed her agenda, Cuddy was equally determined to do anything she could to help. Adler had been visiting PPTH off and on for several months when, suddenly, she was in the news herself, accused of murdering her husband, cinematographer Jeff Adler. According to the news reports, she was presumed to be the victim of spousal abuse.

A few times before the story blew, Cuddy had noticed fresh bruises on Rainie's face or an odd bandage on her hand; she'd even commented on it to Rainie, who brushed off the concern brusquely, saying she was just clumsy. As a result, Cuddy wasn't terribly surprised to hear that Rainie had apparently been beaten by her husband, but she was desperately dismayed to learn that Rainie Adler's investigation of House's case was over.

What surprised her now in retrospect was the realization that Rainie had been injured the same way House had a couple of years earlier, and that neither she nor anyone else at the hospital had figured it out.

"How do you think he took it?" Wilson spat back. "He's upset. He's remembering things… well, things he'd just as soon try to forget." The most he could hope for at this point were enough distractions to keep him from spending every waking hour living with the memories. The sleeping hours were a different matter. Nightmares still plagued House more nights than not, wrenching nightmares in which he relived the terrors he wouldn't share even with Wilson. Often, even now, he woke up panting and sweating, wedged into a corner on the floor, where Wilson would find him shivering.

They shared a duplex, with House and his part-time caregiver, Linda McAllister, in one unit and Wilson in the other. On the really bad days, which had been getting fewer and fewer, thank goodness, Wilson stayed over on House's side, watching over his friend and trying to make life as easy as possible for a man who had lived through hell.

"Did he say anything?"

"Not much. But then he never does." As much as Wilson really didn't want to hear the details—his imagination was plenty good, thank you very much—he wished House would open up more about what happened.

But no. He held it all inside, where it came out in his fitful sleep. Or in those moments when someone moved too quickly or spoke too loudly or expressed anger.

Then Dr. Gregory House, diagnostician extraordinaire, the man who came back from the brink, who once again was the head of Diagnostic Medicine at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, became a frightened child, covering his head or protecting his distorted hands under his armpits, girding himself for the blow that was sure to come. And he hated himself for it.

Wilson had tried to get House into therapy—not that any therapist alive could be prepared to deal with what House had gone through. But of course House refused. "What difference does it make?" he'd say, shrugging his uneven shoulders. "Doesn't change what happened, and forcing me to relive it doesn't seem all that constructive. Just painful. Besides, I'm doing it in my sleep, anyway." Wilson knew there was a flaw somewhere in that argument, but didn't have the heart to contradict his friend.

"So what happens next?" asked Cuddy.

"Beats me," said Wilson. "I'm sure he'll avoid seeing her. It's got to be incredibly painful just knowing there's someone else who's been through what he went through. And that it's because of him she went through it. You should have seen the look on his face when I told him—it was excruciating. No, I don't see him wanting to be anywhere near her." Wilson paused.

Cuddy looked at Wilson closely. "What about the FBI agents?" Wilson looked away. "You did tell him, didn't you? That the FBI needs to talk to him about this?"

Wilson shook his head. "Didn't have the stomach for it. I'll tell him after lunch." Changing the subject, he asked, "Who's handling her case?"

Cuddy shrugged. "At the moment, she's still in ER. How she survived… how he survived… it amazes me what the human body can take." She sighed. "She's septic, which isn't surprising, I suppose, given all those injuries, and they're tracing the source of the infection. If she makes it through the day, I'm putting Naveen Ajunta on the team. He's gentle, sympathetic and she's going to need gentleness and sympathy. For lead physician, I'm not so sure. Any suggestions?"

"You need someone highly skilled who can also deal with the emotional end of things. I don't even know where to start. I could get you a list of the people House has seen. We want the very best people for her injuries. She'll need orthopedic work, internal, reconstructive, plastic surgery…"

His voice drifted off, realizing he was starting to catalog the medical procedures House had undergone—and continued to undergo. Snapping himself back to the present, he added, "If this is anything like House's case, money will be no object. The settlement will be huge and medical will be covered. House could actually be a great resource in helping us find the right people, if he'd, well, you know, be willing…" He looked up, at Cuddy, helplessly.

Cuddy sighed. If House would be willing… Fat chance.

*** * * * **

**W**hen Wilson rapped softly on House's office door at 12:30, he got no answer. Knocking a little harder, he said, "It's me," and rattled the door handle. Locked.

Walking through the Diagnostics conference room, he tried the connecting door, but still got no response. Also locked. This wasn't good. Had the news this morning been that upsetting, that House had locked himself in his office? After pacing a few worried laps around the conference room, he tried again. Nothing. He looked out into the courtyard, gazing vacantly at the trees, and tried to figure out what to do. In all this time, House had never shut him out, at least not out of a room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Wilson saw something move in the courtyard. It was House, sitting at the small patio table, his damaged legs propped up on another chair. Thank goodness, Wilson thought, as he opened the conference room door and stepped outside into the cool spring air.

Simulating good cheer, he called out, "Hey, whatcha doing out here? Trying to get pneumonia or something?"

House looked up and smiled wanly. "Too hot inside. Just cooling off."

"Ready for lunch? I can bring it out here…" His sentence drifted off.

"Sure. What fattening goody did you bring me today?" House knew Wilson was still concerned about his weight, or rather his lack of weight. After being systematically starved, House was released from prison dangerously underweight. Now, nearly a year after coming out of his semi-catatonic state, he was still gaunt. Although he tried to eat, House had very little appetite—too many bad memories connected with food, Wilson guessed. So Wilson was constantly trying to tempt House with tasty and fattening treats. Ironic to be feeding all this fattening food to one man, considering the obesity problem in the U.S., Wilson thought.

"Chocolate-dipped french-fried peanut butter sandwiches." Wilson's mouth twitched as he tried to keep a straight face.

"That sounds disgusting," grimaced House, more like himself. "If you keep this up, you old witch, I'm going to start calling myself Hansel. No, really, what's the treat _du jour_?"

"How about one of those small bundt cakes from Johannsen's?"

"That'll do."

House and Wilson ate their sandwiches in contented silence, watching the effect the breeze had on the light-green new tree leaves. About halfway through the little bundt cake, House turned to Wilson. "So… drop the other shoe."

"I beg your pardon?" said Wilson, feigning innocence.

"Come on. You're biding your time. Treading carefully. You already dropped the big one this morning. As you can see, I'm okay now. I hate suspense, unless I'm the one causing it. So hit me with your best shot."

Not the best choice of words, Wilson thought. Okay, here goes.

"If you insist. I'm sure it's already crossed your mind that you're connected to Rainie Adler whether you like it or not."

House bobbed his head once in agreement, his mouth a grim line, as he kept his eyes on Wilson's face.

"Well, as soon as you're up for it, the FBI needs to talk to you. Because her case is so closely connected to yours, they're going to have to interview you. It's the same FBI guys—Roberts and Matthews—so at least it's people you've met them before."

"I figured as much. Is that it?" Despite everything that had happened, not a whole lot got past Greg House. Damned disconcerting it was, too, that insight and perception of his. It didn't even seem human sometimes.

Wilson nodded. "That's it."

House popped the last bite of bundt cake in his mouth, grabbed his crutches and hauled himself upright. "Okay, let's go," he mumbled as he wiped the crumbs from his mouth off on the shoulder of his jacket.

*** * * * **

"**D**r. House," said agent George Matthews, putting out his hand. "I'm glad to see you again. You're looking _much_ better than you were the last time." That's an understatement, thought Matthews. It's not possible to look worse than he'd looked then. Starved, bloodied, terrified, barely able to stand. And now we're going to go through this all over again.

House cautiously shook his hand, and eased himself into a comfortable chair. Cuddy had given them the board of directors' conference room for the interview, out of consideration for House's assaulted body—it was the room with the overstuffed armchairs.

House did look dramatically better than he had, thought Joe Roberts. He was still painfully thin—but not like before—and his hands still trembled. His face and hands were a latticework of scars, some fine, some deep. But he was back at work, a miracle in itself, and appeared to have shaken at least some of the demons that hounded him. Where before he was fragile and looked like he might crumble at any moment, now he just appeared tired and weak. Which might not seem like an improvement, but it was. And there was the pain, of course, ever present in his face, in the cautious way he moved. That was never going to change.

Roberts understood from Dr. Cuddy that House's mind was as sharp as it ever had been, which had to be a relief to the man considered to be one of the leading diagnosticians in the world. After all the beatings, he should by rights be brain-damaged. Somehow, House had managed not only to survive, but to survive with his brain intact. There might not be a lot to be grateful for in this situation, but at least there was that.

House stretched his neck back and around, took a deep breath, and pressed his fingertips together, which effectively stopped the shaking in his hands. "Shoot. As it were," he said.


	2. Chapter 2: Tearing Off the BandAid

**Chapter 2: ****Tearing Off the Band-Aid**

**W**hile House was talking to Roberts and Matthews, Wilson was talking to Cuddy.

"No surprises this time," he said. "He was way ahead of me and ready to get it over with."

Cuddy nodded. She didn't think she'd ever figure out Greg House. Although she was smart and she knew it, his mind ran rings around hers. She prided herself on being able to multitask, but somehow her daily routine had nothing on his. She could juggle a busy schedule, PR functions, the books (little joke there) and assorted doctors and board members. But he somehow had the uncanny ability to let one part of his brain continue working while the rest of him was playing some idiotic game or harassing his staff. And then, when you least expected it—_presto! chango!_—out came an answer than no one else in the world could have come up with. And it would be the right one.

She was so grateful to have him back at her hospital. He might tire easily, and lord knows he lived with more pain than anyone should, pain that was constantly apparent behind his eyes, but when his brain was needed, it was there. In the few months since he'd come back to work, he'd already solved half a dozen difficult cases that his team and his successor (and predecessor), Dr. Evans, would never have found an answer to. People were alive who would have been dead if it weren't for Greg House.

"How's the patient?" asked Wilson, shaking Cuddy from her introspection.

"Stable last I heard. They really should have brought her here sooner, as soon as the sepsis was suspected. The longer they waited, the greater the probability that she wouldn't survive the infection. Those prison doctors had to have known this was beyond their abilities. Surely someone can cut through this red-tape crap, and get this woman's conviction overturned quickly so she doesn't have to go through what House went through—months in an inadequate prison hospital awaiting retrial."

"Depends on the D.A.'s office. Last time, they insisted that House was guilty of Cameron's murder, despite literally tons of evidence to the contrary." Wilson felt himself getting angry all over again. If the D.A.'s office had just followed the FBI's advice, everything could have been handled quietly behind the scenes. The trials wouldn't have been so stressful on House, and perhaps he wouldn't have collapsed into catatonia. Oh, and the tabloid press wouldn't have created a circus out of the "Tortured Doctor Testifies About Abuse" stories. Sure, the press would still have been on the story, but maybe it could have been controlled.

"They got such bad PR out of it, though, maybe they'll be more sensible this time," said Cuddy, doubtfully.

"Let's hope."

"Do you think House realizes the tabloids are going to get involved again, and will rehash the whole thing?"

"Don't know, but I wouldn't put it past him. He's not stupid. That may have been part of what shook him this morning. He's finally got a semblance of a life, after nearly six years of nightmarish insanity, and it's going to get turned inside out again. I'm sure he's fighting the desire to resent this poor woman for shaking things up. Or the FBI for taking so long to find out about her. If her story had come out the same time as House's, it would have been bad, but over with by now. Like tearing off a band-aid quickly."

Cuddy nodded. No, this band-aid was getting slowly removed, taking with it hanks of hair and skin. She would never let House know she was thinking this, but she couldn't help it: Poor House.

He'd be appalled.

*** * * * **

"**H**ow'd it go?"

"Fine."

Apparently, that was all House was going to say on the subject. He looked exhausted, and he probably was. His skin was translucent, amplifying the scars on his face and hands, and his eyes stared vacantly into the distance.

With Wilson silently at his side, House hobbled along on his crutches, headed back to the safety of his office. He was almost healed from the latest surgeries on his right leg; the next set were scheduled in a couple of weeks, repairing some of the damage on his left. He faced years' worth of reconstructive and corrective surgery on his legs, hands, face, back… you name it. There wasn't an inch of Greg House that hadn't been damaged. Wilson ought to know; he was the only one, besides Linda, House trusted enough to see the injuries.

Proud and stubborn, he had been so fiercely protective of his independence and privacy when his leg was injured years before; now he had to settle for protecting the only thing he had left to protect: his battered body. Nearly everything else was public knowledge, written up in the tabloids in garish detail.

When House first came back to work, a few months earlier, he had to fight the shame and embarrassment he felt when someone recognized him, either from before or from the news stories. _They know who I am. They know who I was. They know what happened to me._

Now, he'd gotten to the point where he could shrug it off most of the time. Unless someone was particularly insensitive. Funny that other people's insensitivity bothered him now. Him. Greg House. The King of Insensitivity. Who prided himself on his crudeness.

Well, not so much any more. That jig was up. He still had that sharp wit, but now people tended to take it with a grain of salt when he tried to misbehave. Plus he just didn't have the gumption for all the games anymore.

He dropped into his office chair with a groan. Three o'clock. He wasn't sure he could make it until five. Wilson stood nearby, hovering, exuding the concern that sometimes drove House crazy. Out of the corner of his eye, House saw his team in the conference room, looking back at him. He motioned them over.

"Anything urgent?" he asked, hoping the answer would be no. And the answer was no, much to his relief. After his team left the room, Wilson looked at him expectantly, transmitting clear nonverbal messages that it was time to go home. House closed his eyes and nodded. "You win." He didn't even have the energy to fight it tonight. He wanted to go home. He wanted to sink into the soft leather sofa, eat some comfort food, watch mindless television, take a pain pill—maybe two—and go to bed. He wanted to hide.

*** * * * **

_**T**__hey were coming for him again. They always came. It didn't matter how tired he was or how much he hurt; they kept coming. The door clanked open. It was playtime. Hours later, new bruises and breaks assaulting his senses, they dumped him back on the floor of his cold cell, his breathing sharp and short around the pain. _

_Sometimes it wasn't physical pain, but mental. Sometimes—often—they held him down while some guard or prisoner raped him, leaving him weeping with humiliation and disgust. Sometimes they merely threatened. To chew his hands up in a garbage disposal. To put his eyes out with a pencil. To castrate him. Eyes, voices, taunting him, never letting him be. Even his own mind was invaded by them. There was no place to hide, no respite, no sanctuary, no hope. _

In his bedroom, which shared a wall with House's, Wilson heard the screams. Damn it! He knew he should have stayed over tonight. Grabbing his key, he ran outside.

Frantically unlocking House's front door, he tore into the bedroom, finding House curled up on the floor, pushing his back into the corner, his eyes unseeing and his breath coming in short gasps.

"House! House," he called. The tormented man in the corner didn't see him. "It's okay. It's okay. I'm here. No one can get you." He forced himself to speak in a soothing tone as he crouched down on the floor next to his friend.

"No, no. No!" cried House, seeing not the reality of his bedroom but the terrors of his past.

"Please. No more," he begged. "Let me die. Please… please… _please_. Just let me… die. Let me die."

Quietly shocked, Wilson drew in a quick breath. He'd never heard House ask to die before. Of course, he must have wanted to—anything to avoid the pain and the terror—but according to Thompson's contract, if House died, someone else would, too, probably Wilson himself. So House stayed alive because it was all he could do.

Tentatively, Wilson reached out and gently touched House on the arm. Sometimes this worked, bringing House back to today, back to safety. More often, it didn't. Tonight would be one of those nights. House flung Wilson's arm away, wrapping his own arms around his head. "No!" he cried out again, his head sinking onto his chest.

"House. House, please. It's okay." He tried again, this time encircling House's upper body with his arm, pulling the shaking man toward him. "It's okay. You're safe."

With a gasp, House came back to the present, focusing his red-rimmed eyes on Wilson. He let out his breath and dropped his head onto Wilson's chest, sobbing, letting Wilson's arms encircle him as he shook, grasping a bit of Wilson's shirt in his misshapen fingers.

*** * * ***

**C**uddy had learned her lesson. When House had returned to work, someone—she was pretty sure it was Dr. Alan Pevey, the little weasel—had notified the press. House, surrounded by the vultures, had been knocked over in the scramble, winding up in the emergency room. Well, it wasn't happening again. She was going to play this as close to the vest as she could.

She owed it to Greg to protect him. He'd saved her life and the lives of several others, by sacrificing himself to Thompson's insanity. Once again, she marveled at House. He'd always been so prickly, so difficult. She'd liked him despite it, and had always suspected it was a protective front. Who would ever have thought that the seemingly self-centered bastard Gregory House had it in him to endure years of unimaginable agony to save others, to put the people he cared about above his own safety, even above his own life? When she'd tried to thank him, he'd shrugged it off, saying it was his choice, his decision.

But now, since his release from prison and the attendant publicity, other people had learned what he was made of. They might still try to cast him as the arrogant ass he always pretended to be, but deep down, everyone knew what he'd done, what he'd sacrificed. Everyone except Pevey, of course. But Pevey was a jerk. She was hoping one day he'd push her too far, and then she could get the board to fire him. Serve the little rat right.

Agents Roberts and Matthews were due any minute, and she wanted to discuss strategy with them. How could they help her protect the shattered man who just wanted to do his job?

*** * * * **

**R**ainie Adler lay quietly on the hospital bed in Room 304. She whimpered as she tugged the blanket over her head, trying to make herself as small as she could. Maybe if she was small, they wouldn't see her. Maybe if she stayed very, very still, they wouldn't know she was there.

Outside her door sat a policeman, guarding his dangerous prisoner.

*** * * * **

"**S**o that's it?" asked Cuddy. "You can get her conviction overturned quietly and quickly? The D.A.'s office isn't fighting it this time?"

"That's it," said Roberts. "They were pretty embarrassed with the House case, so I think we can keep this one on the QT. I'm sure some wiseass tabloid newshound will pick up the story eventually, but we should be able to control it some. Hope so, anyways. Those two have been through enough."

She nodded, flooded with a sense of relief.

"He looks a lot better," added Roberts, somewhat abruptly.

"He is," replied Cuddy, following his train of thought. "Still pretty fragile sometimes, but who wouldn't be?"

"How's she doing?"

"She's critical, but out of the ER. She's technically in ICU, but for her own safety—and because the police still think of her as a prisoner—we've got her in a private room. Why didn't those idiots at the prison hospital send her over as soon as she collapsed? We almost lost her yesterday."

"Can't say. It's a whole new staff over there, as I'm sure you can appreciate, and I guess they're not used to dealing with anything like this. Not that anyone would be used to injuries like hers…" Unspoken were the words "… or like House's."

"How long will it take?" Cuddy forced herself to focus on the issue at hand.

"I think we're looking at having the conviction overturned in a day or two."

"That soon…? Wonderful. Has anyone contacted the _Times_ to let them know what's happened? She must have friends there, plus… " Her thoughts drifted off. Just because Rainie Adler was a reporter, this would make the news.

"Been pushing it off until everything's straightened out."

"Does she know? I mean, about her little girl?"

"We think those s.o.b.'s told her after it happened, but I don't know if it registered. Maybe better if it didn't."

Cuddy nodded. "How do you want this handled? The press stuff, I mean?"

"Let's work out a plan, with contingencies, in case the word gets out sooner."

Again, Cuddy nodded.

*** * * * **

"**I**'m her doctor."

The police guard looked intently at the ID, matching it to the face before him. Finally, he nodded and stepped aside. The tall, lanky doctor slipped into Room 304, his crutches making an irregular sound on the linoleum.


	3. Chapter 3: What Cuddy Never Expected

**Chapter 3: **What Cuddy Never Expected

**I**t was well past nine, and where was House? Foreman and Chase eyed each other warily. Devi saw the exchanged glance and said nothing. Whatever it was that happened yesterday had clearly shaken House. Perhaps he wouldn't be in today. But usually when he was out, Wilson called ahead to let them know.

After waiting another ten minutes, the Diagnostics team decided to try House's office. They entered through the connecting door and began to look around. Almost immediately, they found his backpack, stashed thoughtlessly on the floor near the desk.

"Well, so, he's here," said Chase. "Maybe he's in a meeting or something?"

"It's really none of our business, I guess," added Devi, "and we've got plenty of tests to run without needing to bother him." Her eyes scanned the top of House's desk. A small, folded piece of paper caught her eye. It had her name on it. Bewildered, she picked it up.

"Devi, if that's your real name," it began, in his shaky scrawl. She found herself smiling. "Let those other two losers know I'll be out of my office most of the day, but I can be paged if you really need me. H."

She passed along the message. The other two losers were amused, at least sort of. A thought struck her—how did House know she'd look at his desk?

*** * * * **

**W**hen Cuddy went downstairs to check on Rainie Adler, she found the one thing she never could have expected. After showing her ID to the policeman-in-waiting, she gently slid open the glass door and found House sitting next to the bed, holding Adler's tiny, damaged hand between his large ones, his head bowed. He hadn't heard her enter. She looked more closely. She wasn't sure, but she thought… oh my, yes, she was right.

House was crying, his tears falling softly on the sleeve of his jacket. Cuddy averted her eyes to avoid intruding further on his privacy.

"House?" she said quietly. She would never figure that man out as long as she lived. This was the last place on earth she figured he'd be. And the last thing she thought she'd be privy to.

He looked up, startled, his eyes full of tears. Swallowing, he blinked them away and replaced the anxious look on his face with his usual bluster. Very gently, he placed Rainie's hand back on her bed.

"And your point is?" he said, apropos of nothing.

"Just checking on the patient. How's she doing?" If he was going to pretend he was there for a professional consult, she'd play along.

"Not great," he admitted. Not great at all, he thought. Was I like this? And did they have to keep her chained up? She couldn't possibly run away or hurt anyone. He glanced covertly at the leg iron around her right ankle, remembering his own restraints… _no…! fight it, Greg_… A moment of suffering flashed over his face.

"So, what brings you here?" Cuddy asked, as casually as she could, noting his reaction to the chains. So much misery there, she thought. So much we'll never know.

"Not much," he replied, with a similar forced casualness. "I just figured I had some… well, shall we call it specialized knowledge?" Cuddy nodded in his general direction. She avoided meeting his eyes.

"Got any ideas who should be on her long-term care team? I'm sure we can bring in someone from the outside if we need to. I already asked Dr. Ajunta to be part of this."

House nodded thoughtfully. Good man. Good choice. Cuddy was especially proficient at this part of her job, he thought. So, do I tell her now? Sure, why not?

"I've got a few ideas. Given her condition, we've got at least a few days before she's stable enough to even think long-term." Then, very quietly, almost as a throwaway, he said, "I want to be the lead on this."

Cuddy stared at him. Oh, dear, he thought. That didn't go well. What if she says no?

"Are-are you sure?" she asked, stunned. She couldn't get her head around this. Yesterday, Wilson seemed so sure House wouldn't come within a mile of Rainie Adler, and now here he was, holding her hand and crying, and asking to be the lead physician on her case. Maybe Wilson didn't know House as well as he thought he did.

"Quite sure," came the calm reply. "There's no one on earth—especially no doctor on earth—who would have a better understanding of how to treat her. She's here, I'm here and it makes sense."

There. Logic was on his side. But Cuddy continued to stare, blinking at him, aware that her mouth was slightly open. She snapped it shut. No, never in a million years would she understand Gregory House.

"But…" How could she put this so he wouldn't bark at her? "But, how about emotionally? For you, I mean. Won't this bring up… well… things you'd started to get past?"

He looked up at her, his blue eyes deep and disturbed. "I'll never get past them," he said, looking her squarely in the eye and setting his jaw, and she knew it was true. "The emotions are going to be brought up, whether I'm her lead or not. Might as well do something constructive with them." He glanced down at the floor and mumbled, "Besides, it's my fault."

Uncertainly, Cuddy answered, "What is?"

House sighed. He glanced quickly at Cuddy, then looked away again. "That she's here at all. That she's gone through… what she's gone through."

Cuddy changed her stance, striding closer to House. She willed him to look at her. "That's nonsense, House. If Thompson had picked on anyone other than you, she might still be here. It's not your fault."

House pondered. "Be that as it may," he conceded, "I _feel _responsible. Besides, I'm _still _the best doctor for the job." He looked at her defiantly, and she knew the topic was no longer under discussion.

*** * * ***

"**Y**ou what?!" said Wilson in shock.

"I said, I asked Cuddy to let me be the lead on the Adler case." House stared at him pointedly. "She agreed I was the best person for the job. You got a problem with that?"

Wilson was flabbergasted, speechless for once. He flopped down abruptly in the chair opposite House's desk.

"I-I don't even know what to say," he said. Wilson prided himself on knowing House better than anyone. Certainly he'd been through more with the man than anyone could envision. But there were depths behind those maddening blue eyes that even Wilson couldn't fathom. "Why would you want to do that? Weren't your nightmares last night enough?"

House sighed, wearily. He knew this was going to be a nuisance. "I have nightmares anyway. The only way I can think of to make what Thompson did have any meaning is to make my life meaningful. And what better way to be meaningful than to help the one person—besides myself—who has been through this? No one will ever be able to understand her the way I can. If I can help her, it's like I'm beating Thompson."

He stared Wilson down.

"Subject closed."

And it was. House declined to discuss it further.

*** * * * **

**E**asier said than done, he thought. Medically, he was sure he could help Rainie Adler. But emotionally—not exactly his strong suit. He just might have to drop his guard, not only with her, but also with the rest of the team, if he was going to be able to help her. The thought of being that emotionally naked sent flutters through his chest. Get a grip, he thought. They'll have to know what they're dealing with, and I'm the only one who can tell them.

But could he do for her what Wilson had done for him? Could he listen as she cried, be there when she raged, hold her when she was frightened? He had his doubts. Better make sure there's a damned good psychotherapist on board, he thought.

He picked up the phone and called home. Linda answered. "Hullo?"

"Hey, Linda. Do me a favor."

"Sure, doc. What is it?"

"Find out what it would take to fix up the guest room, paint, new furnishings—the works."

"Uh, okay, doc. Why? What's up?"

"We may be having a visitor," said House, cryptically, as he hung up.

He swiveled in his office chair to look out the window. The sky was darkening. Rain was on the way. That meant neither he nor Rainie Adler were going to be terribly comfortable for the next little while.

A knock at the connecting door to the conference room broke his reverie. "Dr. House?" It was Chase.

House swiveled back around. "What is it?"

"Just wondering if you've got a minute to look at the Smithson case." He slowly extended a file folder in House's direction. He and the others had learned the hard way to always speak softly and move warily around House.

"Sure." House reached for the file.

*** * * ***

**H**e stayed late that night, despite Wilson's protests. His desk was piled high with journals and books, flipped open to chapters on internal injuries, broken bones, post-traumatic stress disorder. Post-Its fluttered out of pages where he'd marked passages he wanted to find again. He'd already filled a yellow legal pad with scribbling, and there was much more to do.

Why was he so caught up in this? Why wasn't Wilson right? Why wasn't this the last thing he'd want? Why wasn't he staying as far away from Rainie Adler as he could?

Because, he thought, in an odd way, this was the ultimate medical mystery. And, as everyone knew, House couldn't resist a mystery. This was the most complex mystery he'd ever tried to solve, although it might just turn out that there was no solution. This was the mystery of how a human being could survive when logic said death would be better. This was the mystery of how the human mind dealt with unimaginable pain, physical and emotional. This was the mystery of how he, House, not the nicest of men and certainly not the most emotionally open, could use the unique knowledge he now had to try to ease the transition back to life of Rainie Adler. And perhaps help himself at the same time.

He turned a page and made another note on the second legal pad.

*** * * ***

**W**hen he finally got home about eight o'clock that night, House felt more pain than he'd felt in several days. Between the coming thunderstorm, the emotional upheaval and the long hours, his body rebelled.

"You doing okay, doc?" called Linda from the kitchen. She'd heard him come in, drop his obviously heavy backpack on the floor by the front door, and stumble over to the couch. As he collapsed onto the sofa, she heard a shuddery moan of pain.

"Been better," came the cautious reply. Actually, been a lot better, he thought. He reached into his breast pocket for his bestest friend, the little bottle of Vicodin, popped the top and flipped one capsule into his mouth, swallowing it dry.

"Would a massage help?" Came the disembodied voice from the kitchen.

"Sure as hell wouldn't hurt," he replied. Sure as hell wouldn't.

Linda McAllister appeared in the doorway. "Here or the bedroom?" she asked. She knew once House got into bed, he'd be there for the night.

"Let's start here," he offered, rolling his head forward on his chest. "Neck and shoulders, back… you know the drill." Still slightly self-conscious, even after all these months, he slipped out of his shirt, displaying the ruined body he strove so hard to hide. One shoulder was a little higher than the other, the result of a bad break, never set. The marks of his pain were layered over each other—burns on top of lash marks overlapping cuts and abrasions. He looked like a jigsaw puzzle that had been put together wrong. And now the odds were good, he'd be seeing another body as appallingly damaged as his own.

He'd gone back into Rainie Adler's room before he left the hospital. After nodding to the nurse in the corner, he took a look around. Rainie was hooked up to tubes, the gentle beeping of her heart monitor keeping time. Her chart told him what he expected, that her injuries were enough like his own to be disturbingly familiar. He looked at the tiny body, breathing around the pain, groaning gently, sleeping restlessly, and he saw himself in her tortured, battered face, which still showed recent bruises glowing blue beneath the skin.

What am I thinking? What on earth makes me think I'm capable of helping her? I can't even help myself, he thought angrily as he let himself back out of her room.

As Linda's experienced fingers kneaded the tender spots, House winced. "Keep going," he said, trying to breathe deeply, to keep himself calm as she made the pain worse to make it better.

"So what's the deal with the guest room?" she asked after she'd worked out the worst of the knots.

He knew she wasn't going to let it go that easily. Might as well spill it and get it over with.

"There's a patient who may need a place to stay," he said simply.

Linda McAllister looked quizzically at the top of his head. She'd known the doc for nearly a year now, and she'd never known him to be generous with his territory. Far from it. This was the only place he felt truly safe, and he didn't want anyone except Linda, Wilson and occasionally his mother invading it. She thought a moment about this new development.

"Why here?" she finally said.

I guess I'd better get used to talking about it, thought House. "Because her injuries are a lot like mine, and I'll be the lead physician on her case."

Linda quietly drew in a slow breath. Interesting, she thought. Very interesting. The man wouldn't go to therapy, but he was willing to reach out to someone in similar circumstances—how could anyone be in similar circumstances, she wondered tangentially—a situation that was bound to force him to open up. Very, very interesting.

"I assume she'll need 24-hour care at first," Linda offered, having picked up on the fact that this new patient was female.

"Definitely," he said, as her fingers hit a particularly tender spot. "Ack!" he hissed. "Watch what you're doing!"

"Sorry, doc. Almost done. And then I'll change your fentanyl patch, which should help. I've got a nice roast chicken in the oven. Rice or potatoes with it?"

"Potatoes, I think. Easier to manage."

"Mashed?"

Like me, he thought. Appropriate. "Yeah. Mashed."

…to be continued…


	4. Chapter 4: Uncharted Territory

**Chapter 4**: Uncharted Territory

**A**round nine, Wilson called. "Want any company?" he asked. What he was really asking, of course, was whether House wanted him to stay over. After last night's episode, he wasn't taking any chances.

"Nope. I'm fine. Got work to do. Thanks." House hung up. Wilson was surprised. House seldom wanted to be totally alone, and never talked about work when he was home. They seemed to be entering uncharted territory here.

He sat on the sofa, his laptop carefully perched on a tray above his legs. Because of the original injury to his right leg, he couldn't handle any pressure on the right thigh, so this was the best he could do. Of course, Thompson's gorillas beating on it regularly hadn't helped a whole lot either. He'd found it was too uncomfortable to sit at the table or a desk for very long, so the laptop on a tray was the best option.

His twisted fingers poked at the keys. While Linda cleaned up and got ready to go home, House stared intently at the computer screen. So much to learn, he thought. But at least I know what I'm looking for.

After a few more minutes, he shut the machine down. Enough for one night. Plus he needed Linda's help to get ready for bed.

After she'd tucked him in, Linda turned off the light. She stood in the doorway, facing the bed. "G'night, doc. See you in the morning." He was already asleep. Amazingly, he stayed that way through the night.

*** * * * **

**F**ollowing a brief breakfast meeting with Cuddy, House gathered his department together. Sitting at the conference room table, sipping his coffee, he briefly, dispassionately, explained that he would be working long-term on a particularly difficult case, and wouldn't be as available as he had been. He sidestepped their questions about the case.

Chase and Devi eyed each other, trying to read between the lines. Was House's health worse? Was he avoiding telling them he needed more surgeries? Or had he gotten in trouble with Cuddy? Foreman, always assuming the worst, just rolled his eyes.

They'd manage just fine without him, House said, and he'd be available for consults. They could page him any time, day or night, and he'd be in the hospital a lot, so he was here if they needed him.

Well. That didn't sound like problems with Cuddy anyway. Maybe it was more surgeries. Maybe he'd be bedridden for a while. It was like House to hide things. If the man ever opened up to anyone about anything… other than Wilson… it would be a miracle.

He expressed confidence in their abilities. Then he got to his feet, leaning heavily on his crutches, and shuffled out the door toward the elevator.

After he left, the three looked at each other. "Well? What is it?" asked Devi, figuring Chase and Foreman must have a better idea than she did.

"Haven't the foggiest," said Chase.

"Me neither," said Foreman, shaking his head.

*** * * ***

**A**t about the same time, Wilson confronted Cuddy.

"Are you really going to let him do this?" Wilson asked, looking at his boss incredulously.

"Let him? _Let _him!? You've got to be kidding, right? Since when is it possible to stop that man when he sets his mind to something?" Pursing her lips, she glared back at Wilson. Suddenly, she found herself amused by Wilson's overprotective attitude. Of course, she thought, it was that same stubborn determination that had enabled House to survive in the first place.

Wilson sighed dramatically. "Yeah. You're right," he admitted. "I guess if it means that much to him…" He couldn't see anything good coming out of this, but it looked as if he wasn't going to get a say in this decision.

"Has he chosen his team yet?"

"Not yet. He agreed with me about Dr. Ajunta being an asset, so there's one." Since late yesterday, Cuddy had been pondering how to divvy up House's time, now that the Adler case would be taking up more—if not all—of House's hours. Early that morning, she and House had met over breakfast, and House had suggested he function as a consultant in his own department, brought in only when really needed.

"The kids can handle everything without me, for the most part. And it might do them good to have to rely on their own judgment, not mine," he said.

When did he get so smart about people? Cuddy wondered. Or had he always been this way and just didn't let me see it? Probably always this way, she decided. He always had that uncanny insight into human behavior. He'd just spent years covering it up with ass-hatted comments, leers about her cleavage and juvenile games.

"I'm sorry… what did you say, Wilson?" Cuddy had completely spaced out.

"I _said_, 'What about the legal situation?'"

"Oh, that. I talked to Joe Roberts yesterday, and he assured me that Adler's conviction would be overturned easily and quickly. I'm a little more concerned about the press. They're bound to get onto this eventually, and it's not going to be pretty."

Wilson nodded in agreement.

*** * * ***

**R**ainie Adler moaned, shifting in her sleep. _Where were they? They had to be somewhere. And when they found her, it would all start again_. Over her own thoughts, she heard a strange beeping sound. _What was that? Some new method of hurting her, no doubt. Well, as long as Evie was okay. _She shivered. An antiseptic smell assaulted her nostrils. _This was new. What was going on? _Cautiously, she opened her eyes, fearful of what she would see.

What she saw puzzled her. It looked vaguely familiar. It was a face. That's odd, she thought. Am I awake, or am I dreaming? The face looked back at her. It had striking blue eyes. They seemed benign. Hmmm. Maybe I'm hallucinating. That face belonged to someone. Well, that was obvious, but which someone? Who was it? She thought she ought to know who it was, but she couldn't quite remember. Somehow, the face didn't look the way she expected it to look.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Okay. Either I'm hallucinating or I'm dreaming. But whichever, it seems safe so far. Slowly, she opened her eyes again. The face was still there.

*** * * ***

**W**hen Rainie Adler opened her eyes and looked at House, he held his breath. Not sure what to do, he simply looked back. He'd wait for her to be ready for him. She searched his face with something like recognition in her eyes. He hoped it would take her awhile before she remembered that he was the cause of her torment. He hoped she'd eventually realize he would never hurt her. Above all, she needed to know he was safe. That _she_ was safe with him.

A frown crossed her brow. She shut her eyes again, opening them slowly, as if to make sure she was really awake. He knew that feeling.

"It's okay," he whispered, as Wilson has so often whispered to him. "You're out of harm's way. It's over."

She didn't believe him, of course. It was some new trap, some new way to cause her anguish. But as long as it didn't hurt right now, she supposed she'd go along with it. After all, what choice did she have?

"Ummm…" she proposed, hesitantly.

"Shhh… I know you don't believe it, but, really, it's all right. No one's going to hurt you now. Go back to sleep."

Curious, she looked past the familiar—but not familiar—face, and examined her surroundings. The antiseptic smell permeated everything. Better that than the stench of her cell, she thought. The beeping continued. She tried to move a little, and realized she had tubes and wires coming out of her. Her leg—her leg was chained to the bed. Oh, god, she thought, feeling waves of panic begin hit her. That's it. Some kind of electrical charge. Or maybe… she couldn't conceive of what kind of torture they had in store for her with all of these wires.

She couldn't catch her breath. Her eyes widened in fear as she looked around. _When were they going to do it? What would it be? _Her body began to shake.

Shit, he thought. This was going to be really hard. She was anticipating some new form of torture. Of course she was. What else would she think? At least in his case, Wilson had been there. Although, now that he thought about it, House seemed to recall being positive that Wilson was being used to harm him, too.

"I know. I know," said the deep, soft voice behind the face. The man reached out toward her—she started to pull away… until she saw that hand. The long fingers were bent at odd angles, crooked, the hand covered in scars, and the hand shook with a slight tremor. She gasped, looking at it. Every so slowly, ever so gently, the hand touched her arm; as it did the tremor stopped and so did her shaking.

"I know what you're thinking," said the voice, unexpectedly. "If anyone does, I do. But it's okay. It's okay." He didn't know what else to say. And he had to start somewhere.

*** * * ***

**H**ouse sank down in the chair across from Cuddy's desk. He looked exhausted, which was only right, because he was. This emotional stuff was draining. Much easier to watch his soaps and wait for inspiration to strike. Once he'd been sure Rainie was asleep again, he'd quietly hobbled out of her room and called Cuddy. When he told her that Maureen Adler had regained consciousness, she'd sent for him.

"So…?" It was only one word, but Cuddy's voice expressed both interest in the patient and concern for the doctor.

House looked around the room, fixing his gaze on a miniature stethoscope on her credenza.

He spoke very matter-of-factly. "She woke up briefly. I think she may have recognized me, at least partially. The machines and tubes frightened her… as they did me at the beginning… and I stayed with her till she dropped off to sleep again. That's it."

Cuddy searched House's face for more information, but none was forthcoming. _As they did me at the beginning,_ he'd said. Interesting that he'd share that. I don't think he would have before, she thought.

"Thanks. Have you given any more thought to who you want on the team?"

House nodded, looking down at the floor. "I've got a pretty good idea. Some of the people I've been working with have been excellent. A couple not so much. I'll see if I can get you a wish list by tomorrow." He heaved himself out of the chair with his crutches. "I'm going back down. She'll need some sense of stability, and the more she sees me, the better."

Cuddy watching him leave, and shook her head, almost in disbelief. If anyone had told her six years ago that the cantankerous Dr. Gregory House would be sitting for hours at the bedside of a torture victim to give her time to trust him… well, no one would have believed it. For that matter, if anyone had said it even two days ago… She wasn't totally sure she believed it now that it was happening, but what else was she to believe?

…to be continued…


	5. Chapter 5: Playing By New Rules

**Chapter 5: **Playing By New Rules

**W**ilson glanced at the clock. It was lunchtime. He hadn't seen House since yesterday afternoon, in itself an unusual occurrence these days. He decided it was time to check in. Grabbing his sack lunch, Wilson headed down the stairs to the Diagnostics department.

"Hi, it's me," he said, knocking gently on the door as usual. No answer. He went through the conference room, where Devi and Chase were eating their lunch. They looked at him expectantly, as if he could answer some unasked question for them. The door to House's office was closed. Wilson tilted his head toward the door. "He in?"

"Nope," said Chase, eyeing Wilson with curiosity. "Thought you'd know where he was."

Hmm, thought Wilson. I guess we're playing by new rules.

"Not a clue," said Wilson. "Not a clue."

*** * * * **

**H**ouse had requested a comfortable armchair and ottoman for Rainie's room. If he was going to spend so much time in Room 304, accommodations would have to be made. The nurse in the corner looked at him oddly when the new furniture arrived. He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, "Beats me where it came from," and then plopped himself down with a sigh, grabbing another medical journal from his backpack.

An hour and a half later, he woke up, wanting what Winnie-the-Pooh called "a little something." The journal was on the floor. Glancing at his watch, he realized it was after one. Wilson must have been and gone, wondering where he was. Do him good, thought House, amused. In the meantime, he should get something to eat. He looked over at Rainie, who was curled up in as close to a fetal position as the wires and tubes would let her.

To the nurse, he said, very quietly, "Did she wake up again?" The nurse, whose name he had discovered was Ellen Markham, shook her head. Not one of the regular staff, she had been sent by the prison hospital. All the time he'd been in the room, she'd been reading a romance novel in the corner. Just as well, he thought.

Once he was out of the room, he called Wilson on his cell phone. No point in making him completely nuts.

"House?! Where are you?" said Wilson, a little too frantically.

"Just about to get some lunch," he replied, smiling wickedly to himself. "Wanna join me?"

He met Wilson in the cafeteria, at their usual table. Maneuvering the tray with the crutches was impossible, so he scanned the menu and conned Wilson into doing the grunt work. He was sure to add plenty of chips and cookies and sugar-laden Coke to make Wilson happy. The punch line? He even paid for it.

Wilson was very confused. Carrying the tray back to the table, he puzzled over the dramatic changes he'd seen in his friend over the last couple of days.

"So… how's it going?" Wilson asked gingerly, after he'd finished half of the sandwich he brought from home. He didn't want to seem too eager.

"Pretty well," came the reply, "all things considered." House looked at him with insincere innocence, and fluttered his eyelashes.

That tears it. No more Mr. Nice Guy, thought Wilson.

"Okay, you've had your fun. Now spill it. What's happening?"

Much to his surprise, House smiled—a genuine smile, his eyes observing Wilson. Messing with Wilson had been one of his greatest pleasures, and he hadn't realized just how much he'd missed it.

"Not much, really. Did a bunch of research last night, and put together a tentative list of names for Cuddy. I'll try to finish it up tonight."

"And where were you all morning?" Wilson couldn't contain his curiosity. "The kids had no idea where you were."

"They'll live," said House, refusing to elaborate.

"Neither. Did. I," said Wilson, enunciating each word deliberately, looking House right in the eye.

I may be about to cross the line here, thought House. And he wasn't sure he wanted to do that, even though he really wanted to keep things to himself.

He couldn't explain it, but this was so personal… and so… so, what…? so… so _scary_… no, that wasn't quite it, but in lieu of a better word it would have to do… he didn't want to share it with anyone until he felt he was on firmer ground. Tricky, this emotional stuff. Lots of pitfalls all over the place.

House thought about the best way to present things. He didn't want Wilson upset, because that meant sooner or later _he'd_ be upset. But he didn't want to spill his guts, either. He was afraid there'd be plenty of that in the days and weeks and probably months ahead. He just wanted to put the brakes on, just a little. Things were going too fast.

Wilson watched his friend's face; he could tell House was struggling with something, something major. And as much as he wanted to be included, he suddenly realized that he couldn't hold his friend's hand forever. He'd gotten accustomed to his role as the supporter, the best friend, the one who always understood, who was always there. This must be what parents feel like when their kids go on their first date, he thought. I want to protect him, and yet that's probably not the best thing for him. If he's ever going to recover even a fraction of what he's lost, I've got to let go. Starting now, I guess.

After a very long pause, they both started speaking at once, paused again, then started together again, looking at each other with amusement. Wilson remembered a time when House's anxious smiles never reached his eyes, and here he was smiling. Twice in as many minutes. Not bad, thought Wilson. Not bad.

He waved his arm with a flourish, gesturing for House to go first.

House nodded and began. "I was in Rainie Adler's room," he said, simply. "Until I know how it's going to go, I'd rather not go into a lot of detail. Are you okay with that?"

Wilson replied warmly. "Of course I am," he said and meaning it. "Of course I am."

"Your turn," said House.

"That's okay. Wasn't important," said Wilson.

*** * * * **

**W**hen House got off the elevator on the third floor, he knew something was very wrong. He could hear yelling coming from the direction of Room 304. Underneath the yelling, he heard a woman's voice, screaming.

Damn these useless legs, he thought, tottering toward the sound as fast as he could go. He flung open the door to see a tableau of confusion.

"What the fuck is going on in here?!" he demanded to know. The yelling stopped momentarily, although the screaming continued. Leaning heavily on his crutches, he dragged his legs behind him, moving as quickly as he could toward the bed where Rainie Adler sat partially upright, her eyes wide open in fright, emitting shrieks of terror. Using his body as a shield, he blocked the group from coming too near.

"Get out of here! All of you! NOW!"

The crowd, which he realized actually consisted of only four people, started to argue with him, moving closer to the bed. Rainie's screams got louder.

"NOW! I mean it! What do you people think you're doing?! We'll sort this out later! For now, get the hell out of here if you don't want to kill her!"

_That _got their attention. Slowly, they backed off. The group consisted of the police guard, a couple of people he didn't recognize and Ellen Markham, the nurse.

As they left the room, he eased closer to Rainie's bed. Her screams slowed and quieted.

He turned to look at her, recognizing the terror on her face. Damn. He hated this. He'd better get a therapist on the team really fast, because he sure wasn't cut out for this kind of thing.

"Rainie," he said softly, unsure of how to calm her down. Her screams had become cries, her breath coming in hiccupy pants. "Rainie, it's me. I'm… I'm your doctor." Better not give her his name yet. "I'm here to help you."

She looked at him as if he had three heads. Slowly, he inched closer, putting out his hand for her to inspect. She looked at it intently, seeming to understand innately that anyone with a hand like that couldn't hurt her. Her body unwound just a little.

Thinking of how Wilson helped him during those nightmare sessions, House awkwardly slid his left arm around Rainie's shoulders and pulled her close to him. He could feel her heart beating wildly against his chest, her body tense and rigid against him. "It's okay," he whispered. "It's okay. I'm here. No one will hurt you while I'm here."

Ever so slowly, she began to relax.

An hour later, after he'd given her a sedative and helped her to sleep, House came out of the room, the actors in the tableau still hanging around.

"Now, calmly, tell me what the hell happened in there," he said in a tone that made it clear he was not going to put up with any bullshit.

It was only much later in the day that he realized, with considerable surprise, that despite confronting an angry mob coming toward him in Rainie's room, he had never felt a single second of fear. That's interesting, he thought.

*** * * * **

"**S**o, what the hell did happen?" asked Cuddy, clearly annoyed at the reports of disruption on the third floor.

"Sheer idiocy," said House through clenched teeth. "The prison sent two guards over to—can you believe this?—check her out of the hospital. Apparently, their feeling was that she had survived the surgery, so must be out of danger, and therefore belonged back in prison. They barged into the room while she was asleep, shook her awake and started ordering her to get out of bed. Of course, she was terrified. The guard and the nurse—to their credit—were trying to manage the situation just as I arrived." His eyes flashed with anger. "Is there anything more we can do to protect her from well-meaning Neanderthals? Any way we can keep her here?"

Cuddy looked thoughtful. "The odds are good that her conviction will be overturned today or tomorrow, and then it's moot."

House looked up, hopefully. "Really? That soon?" He thought back to the months he'd spent in the ill-equipped prison hospital, awaiting retrial. If Rainie could avoid that, things would be much easier.

"That's what Roberts told me. I'm waiting to hear from him now."

House nodded thoughtfully. "That would be good."

While he was there, he gave Cuddy his wish list for Rainie's long-term medical team. They went over it together. She seemed to feel that getting all or most of his choices was a good possibility.

*** * * ***

**R**oberts arrived with the news at the end of the day. Rainie's conviction had been quietly overturned half an hour earlier. The judge was sympathetic and knew the history—he was the same judge who had presided when House had collapsed into catatonia at the end of his own retrial. That part was over. Rainie would still have to testify at the trials of her abusers, but they'd deal with that when the time came.

Cuddy paged House, who arrived a few minutes later. She could see the strain was telling on him. It had been a very rough couple of days, and House didn't have much stamina. His eyes looked hollow, his gait was even slower than usual and the trembling in his hands more noticeable. She was going to send him home shortly, she decided. It was Friday, so maybe he could get some rest over the weekend.

After he was seated, she and Roberts laid out their ideas for dealing with the press.

"Now that the case is officially in the court record, the news is bound to get out," said Cuddy. "If we can avoid it, I'd like to try to make sure that no one knows you're the lead physician on this."

House nodded his agreement. He'd already been thinking about what the press vultures would write when they learned he was connected to this case. Even without that connection, his whole story was sure to be rehashed _ad nauseum_ for the delectation of the drooling masses.

"I think we need to start notifying her former co-workers and see if we can track down any other friends. She doesn't seem to have much in the way of family," said Roberts. He didn't mention Rainie's daughter. That was another matter, and would have to be handled delicately. "If you'd like, I'll get my team on it first thing Monday morning. We'll deal with it discreetly and in person, starting with her colleagues at the _Times_. Some of them may want to come see her. What should we say?"

Cuddy and Roberts looked to House for the answer.

House was thoughtful. "Let me think on it a few minutes," he finally said. "I don't want her overwhelmed, but it may help to see familiar faces." He thought of his own slow realization that Wilson was not there as part of Thompson's plan but as his own good friend. What Rainie really needed was a good friend like Wilson. I wonder if she had any, thought House. Probably. Only manipulative bastards like me have just one friend.

Cuddy and Roberts continued to talk about the logistics of handling the press while House cogitated. Finally, during a pause in their conversation, he looked up.

"Tell them to contact me," he said suddenly. "Give them my cell number. Oh, and if you could try to find out who she was closest to when you're breaking the news, let me know. I want to manage who she sees."

Cuddy was getting to the point where House's reactions in this unfamiliar situation no longer shocked her, but she was still startled—amazed might be a better word—at how House was behaving. She felt that she was seeing the Greg House she'd always suspected was in there somewhere, under all the guff and the nastiness and the practical jokes. This must be unbelievably hard for him.

*** * * ***

**W**ith some satisfaction, he personally supervised the removal of Rainie's leg chain, and watched Ellen Markham and the police guard pack up and leave. A new nurse from PPTH settled in to keep an eye on the patient. He gave strict instructions to be called if there were any problems. He buzzed Dr. Ajunta and filled him in. Both of them would be on call throughout the weekend.

After checking in again on Rainie, and finding her sleeping somewhat comfortably, House went to Wilson's office. It was 4:30. Plopping down on the couch in Wilson's office, he took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling.

"Any chance you'll be done shortly?" he asked.

Wilson looked up sharply. House didn't look good. He'd been overdoing it. "I could be," he replied. "Not up to driving yourself?"

House agreed that he wasn't. He closed his eyes. It hurt too much to move. He'd be willing to stay right here in this spot for the next 10 hours. He wished that storm front would move through.

"I'll run you home, and then Linda and I can come back for your car," said Wilson decidedly. He closed up his briefcase and came over to House, extending his right arm. "Come on, buddy. Let's get you home." He helped House up and guided him out of the building to the car.

*** * * * **

**A**s they pulled into the driveway, Wilson glanced over at his dozing friend. What had possessed him to take this on? Wilson wondered. It was a disaster in the making.

"Hey," he said softly. "We're here." He'd called ahead to Linda, warning her to be ready with the wheelchair. She must have heard the car pull in, because there she was, rolling the chair up to the passenger side door.

House opened his eyes just slightly. He didn't think he could even get out of the car. Wilson and Linda eased him out of the passenger seat and into the chair.

"Pathetic," he muttered under his breath. He couldn't even put in a full day, so what made him think he was the right man for the enormous task he'd taken on?

"Don't be ridiculous, doc," said Linda, rolling him through the front door. "You're just tired. Little man, you've had a busy day."

Once inside, they considered their options. "Straight to bed?" asked Wilson. Linda nodded. For once, they didn't even give House a say, and he was too drained to argue.

After helping him change into a soft shirt and sweatpants, they tucked him into the big, overstuffed bed, propping him up on the soft pillows and putting the television remote within reach. Linda brought him a tray with a turkey sandwich, some baby carrots, a can of Coke and a small bowl of vanilla pudding on it. If he got a few bites down, they'd be surprised.

He let out a breath and leaned back into the pillows.

"You okay for a few minutes while we go get your car?" asked Wilson. House nodded, closing his eyes.

"When we get back, we'll give you a massage and another Vicodin," added Linda. "Don't take any before we get back or it'll upset your stomach." House nodded again. He didn't think he had the strength even to open the bottle.

On the way back to the hospital, Linda asked Wilson about the guest room. "What's the deal?" she wanted to know. Although he was startled, Wilson didn't show it. Everything the last couple of days had been surprising, so why should it surprise him that House wanted to bring Rainie Adler home?

"You'll know it soon enough, so I might as well tell you," he said. "There's a woman who has been through pretty much the same thing House has. He's asked to be the lead doctor on her medical team." Linda shot him a searching look. "Yeah, I know. Unlikely, huh? But he did. And I guess he's planning to bring her home to recuperate once she's out of the hospital." He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know what he's thinking, but he seems pretty determined. Which I guess is good." He didn't sound convinced.

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

When they got home, House was awake, watching a bowling tournament on ESPN. The sandwich was half eaten and the pudding was gone. The can of Coke must have slipped through his ungainly fingers, because the tray was sticky with spilled soda, making the remains of his sandwich a soggy mess. Two of the carrots had rolled off the tray onto the bedclothes. He looked up sheepishly. "Clumsy," was all he said.

"How you feeling?" asked Linda as she grabbed the errant carrots and put the tray on the floor. "Ready for that massage?"

"A little better," he replied. "And yes. Also yes to the Vicodin."

He slid down off the pillows. They gently eased him onto the top of the covers, turning him over on his stomach, and took his shirt and sweatpants off. Wilson and Linda were used to his shattered body now, but every once in a while—and this was one of those whiles—it still caught them up short. They exchanged a glance over House's head.

How could anyone inflict this kind of damage on someone else? More to the point, how could anyone live through that kind of abuse? Broken bones, never properly set, angled up to the surface of his skin in odd places. His feet and hands were mangled so grotesquely they almost didn't look like anything human. Early on in his recovery, he'd described his once-elegant hands as "squashed spiders," and that's certainly what they looked like. His right thigh, already so damaged from the muscle injury, was horribly disfigured now, after years of additional abuse on this most sensitive area. His entire body was covered in scars: little ones, big ones, long ones, short ones, round ones from cigarette burns. And then there was the large, irregularly shaped red one on his stomach, which looked like boiling water had been poured on him. And those were just the visible injuries. Internally and emotionally, similar damage had been inflicted.

"You take the right side; I'll take the left," said Linda, unemotionally. They gently began massaging House's back. The two were so familiar with every inch of House's pain-ridden body they could tell how bad it was tonight.

House bit his lip hard to keep from crying out. It was bad tonight. Very bad. As his friend and his nurse pummeled him from above, he distracted himself by thinking over the last couple of days. Why was he so certain that he could help Rainie Adler? He reminded himself that it was the ultimate mystery. Plus, if anyone could understand what she'd gone through, it was him. But did he have strength—physical or emotional—to handle it? He wasn't sure. Guess I won't know until I try, he decided.

Linda and Wilson had moved up to shoulders and forearms. "_Uhhhhh… uhhhh…!_" moaned House involuntarily through a quick intake of breath. He bit his lip again. He could no longer remember a time when he wasn't in constant pain. A good day was when the pain was manageable. A great day was when he kept himself so distracted that he didn't notice so much. A bad day—and this was ending as a very bad day—was when the pain permeated every thought, every movement, when he couldn't breathe without having something hurt so badly he wanted to cry.

"I'll win, you son-of-a-bitch," he thought grimly, not realizing he'd said it aloud. "You may have beaten me, but you're not going to win."

"What was that, House?" asked Wilson, not quite sure what he'd heard.

"What? Nothing," said House, burying his face in the pillow and biting a corner of the quilt. "Muffink at all."

…to be continued…


	6. Chapter 6: Nightmares

**Chapter 6: **Nightmares

**I**t was no surprise that House's sleep that night was interrupted by nightmares. This time, though, Wilson had been smart and stayed over, curling up in the recliner next to House's bed.

About 2:30 in the morning, Wilson woke from a light sleep to hear House groaning in the bed next to him. "Hey, big guy," he whispered. "You okay?" House didn't seem to hear him. He tried it again, a little louder this time. Still nothing. This wasn't a good sign, thought Wilson. He got out of the recliner and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching over to where House was beginning to toss around under the covers.

Gently, he touched House on the upper arm. Instead of settling him down, Wilson's touch seemed to agitate House. He grabbed Wilson's hand and flung it away from him, his face distorted with rage. _Uh-oh_, thought Wilson. This is new.

"Get the fuck away from me!" growled House through his teeth. His eyes were open now, but Wilson was pretty sure he was still asleep. "If you come any closer, I'll kill you! I'll FUCKING KILL YOU!"

By the time the night was over, House had threatened to kill Wilson three more times.

*** * * ***

**H**ouse slept in until 11 the next morning. At a late breakfast, prepared by Wilson because it was Linda's day off, Wilson hesitantly told House what had happened. "I've never seen you like that," he said, still disturbed by it. "Your eyes were wide open and you were like a maniac. I don't know if it was at me or someone in your dream, but you were ready to kill."

Hazy images came back to House, although he couldn't remember any details, which was probably just as well. "I don't know what it was all about," was all he could say. "I don't know."

He knew the turmoil of the last few days had not only exhausted him but had churned up his emotions, too. And certainly anger at what Thompson had done to him—and now also to Rainie—was a component. He'd been dealing with the fear for so long, he'd overlooked the other emotions way down inside him somewhere. A deep and overwhelming rage was one of them. But what to do about it?

*** * * *  
**

**E**arly Saturday afternoon a package arrived. When he saw the return address, House's eyes lit up for an instant, and then the embers died away. Too much, he thought. He felt as if the breath had been knocked out of him. This is hopeless. He looked down at his hands, and shut his eyes, remembering a time when he could use those ineffective things as his emotional outlet, when he could spend hours at the piano, lost in intricate jazz harmonies and rhythms, or pour his pent-up feelings into playing a guitar, or just giving himself simple pleasure through music.

Now… well, now he couldn't imagine ever having that joy or that emotional release again. His fingers were too twisted; his hands and arms had lost their strength and sensitivity. What had he been thinking, ordering a tabletop keyboard?

Wistfully, he put the box in the closet, hiding it behind his winter coat.

*** * * ***

"**Y**es, what? Yes, that sounds good. I could come by in an hour or so."

House hung up the phone as Wilson wandered in from next door.

"What was that?" asked Wilson.

"Hospital calling. Rainie seems to be starting to come around, and the nurse—what was his name again?"

"Is it Howard? Or Michael?"

"Michael—that's it—Michael Samura wondered if I wanted to check on her. Thought I'd go over in a bit. Do you have anything you need to do at the hospital?"

"Actually, yes, I need to get caught up on some paperwork. We could ride together. How long will you need to stay?"

House thought about it. He really needed more rest, a lot more rest. Plus his throat hurt. He wasn't sure if it was from the yelling Friday afternoon or the nightmares Friday night, or both, but either way, it was hard to talk. He'd keep it short today. "I dunno. Maybe an hour or so? No more."

"Works for me."

An hour and ten minutes later, House slipped into Room 304, no longer guarded by a policeman. Michael Samura, the day nurse, rose to greet him.

"Hiya, doc," he said, reaching out for a handshake.

I hate handshakes, grumbled House to himself. It's always so awkward. Either they grip too hard and they hurt me, or they get all weirded out when they see my hand. Or both.

Samura did neither. He grasped House's hand firmly but gently. Of course, Samura had had plenty of time to get used to seeing the new and improved Dr. House around the hospital, so House had been spared the shocked look he usually received from strangers or people who hadn't seen him since before.

"So," said House. He nodded toward the bed, where Rainie seemed to be sleeping. "What's up?"

"She's woken up a couple of times, very groggy, of course. She seems to be looking for someone—I thought it might be you—and then she drifts back to sleep."

"How's she doing otherwise? How are her vitals?"

"Fine, considering," came the answer.

Fine, considering told him what he needed to know. She was as good as could be expected under the circumstances. It looked like she might survive.

He hobbled over to her bedside, checked her chart, and then slid into the comfortable armchair, propping his aching legs up on the ottoman and letting his crutches fall to the floor. The journal he'd dropped yesterday was right where he left it. He picked it up and started thumbing through it absentmindedly.

Just as he'd gotten all involved in an article on diabetic neuropathy, his cell phone went off, and Rainie started in the bed next to him. "Shit!" he said to himself. Forgot to put it on vibrate. Glancing over to make sure Rainie hadn't been wakened by the sudden noise, he answered. "What," he whispered abruptly.

"House, it's Lisa Cuddy. Sorry to bother you on your day off." He'd seen no point in letting her know he was coming in to the hospital.

"Yeah. What is it?"

"Just checking in," she said, cautiously.

"And…?" he said. There had to be more. He hoped it was something simple. He had just about reached the end of his ability to cope.

Cuddy paused. "And… sorry, House. I just got a call from Joe Roberts saying they've heard from some enterprising reporter who stumbled on the court records from Friday. I assume they've haven't put the pieces together yet, but I wanted you to be prepared."

House didn't say anything. Bound to be expected, he thought.

"House? Are you there?"

"Yes," he sighed. "I'm here."

"I know it sucks. I'd have liked to have a few more days."

"Okay. Me, too. Let me know how you want this handled." He flipped the phone shut.

Rainie slept on, only occasionally moaning in her sleep. After waiting another hour, he called Wilson and they went home.

House slept through the night.

Thank goodness Sunday was quiet. House took it easy the whole day, giving his body and emotions a much-needed rest. Around three o'clock, he checked in with the hospital—this time the nurse was Selma, whom he didn't know—and all seemed well with Rainie. Good, he thought, and went back to sleep.

Wilson was relieved that House's sleep, both during the day and then again that night, was unencumbered by nightmares. The front finally blew through in the late afternoon, and by Sunday night, House felt much better.

*** * * ***

**F**irst thing Monday morning, Joe Roberts met with the editor and the PR director of the _Times_. As he expected, the news was both shocking and welcome. It seems that Maureen Adler had a lot of supporters on the staff; they'd be thrilled to hear she'd been released, considerably less so to find out what she'd suffered during her imprisonment. He began assembling a list of names—friends, colleagues, a few distant family members—and set his staff to making calls. He left a message on House's cell phone, letting him know he might start hearing from people shortly.

*** * * ***

**N**ow that the news was out about a _New York Times_ reporter's murder conviction being overturned and her connection to the now infamous Robert Thompson, it wouldn't be too long before Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital was overwhelmed with reporters. Sure enough, when Cuddy got in she found half a dozen messages on her desk from press outlets, all asking to interview House. Like that was going to happen, she thought.

She beefed up security around the hospital. If anyone leaked the information that Maureen Adler was here, or worse yet, that House was the lead physician on her case, life would be impossible. And she wasn't going to have House upset any more than necessary, at least not if she could help it.

Not for the first time, she found herself wondering if House was up to this. He'd looked so frail on Friday afternoon, as if he could barely hold his head up. He'd seemed hardly able to walk, his hands shook pathetically and his now-raspy voice, always quiet since the injuries to his vocal cords, kept fading away as he talked so she'd had to strain to understand him.

When House got in a few minutes later, he went straight to Cuddy's office, where he found her head to head with the hospital's PR head. She motioned him in.

"Greg, you remember Janice Pierson, right?" House nodded, as he dropped into a nearby chair, leaning his crutches across his body. It was the hand-shaking bit again. Pierson gave him the look, the one where she was trying to avoid looking shocked but not quite succeeding, and squeezed his hand a little too tight. He bit back the desire to wince.

"I assumed you'd rather not talk to the press," began Cuddy. He looked much better this morning, she noted with relief. The tremor was almost unnoticeable and his face didn't look so drawn. "Of course, they all want to talk to you. I'm telling everyone to say you're not available. Okay with you?"

"Absolutely," came the reply. The last thing he needed right now was being ambushed by the press. It occurred to him that he ought to watch his coming and going for a while. Maybe he'd better not drive his car in for the next few days. He'd touch base with Wilson about that when he was done here.

"As for Rainie, so far, they don't seem to know she's here, so that's good."

"They'll figure it out eventually," said House. "And then what?"

"Then we'll deal with it. Mostly, I don't want her—or you—upset in any way."

Good luck with that, thought House. Upset was his new middle name. He felt his cell phone vibrate; he let the call go to voicemail.

After settling the details and sending Janice off to deal with the press calls, Cuddy turned to the next bit of business. She was true to her word. She'd spent the weekend contacting the doctors and therapists on House's wish list. All but one had agreed to be part of the team, and the exception excused herself only because she was going to be out of the country for three months. All had either worked on House's case or were familiar with his condition. Of course, the notoriety meant that virtually every medical professional in the country had at least a passing familiarity with his case. From a medical standpoint, this was a rare opportunity to work with the acclaimed Dr. House, and to tackle one of the hardest cases they'd ever have the chance to work on.

Cuddy set the first meeting for three that afternoon. In addition to Ajunta, House had requested Karen Langley, a first-rate orthopedic surgeon who had provided excellent care to House himself; Jacey Liu, a top-notch psychiatrist specializing in PTSD; Anna Stein, a staff neurologist; Synthia Little, a pain management specialist; Edward Mbarra, a reconstructive plastic surgeon, three physical therapists and Wilson.

House had insisted on Wilson, provided he was willing. Although his specialty of oncology certainly had nothing to do with the case, his hands-on experience with House's recovery made his involvement essential in House's opinion. Initially, Wilson was hesitant, but when Cuddy, and later on House himself, made the request, he eventually agreed. But only on a consulting basis, and only when it wouldn't interfere with his cancer patients' treatment.

He told Cuddy, but not House, that he had reservations about participating, mostly because he knew too many intimate details about House's medical status that House might not want others to know. Not only might that undermine his own recovery, it could make it difficult for the rest of the team to have complete confidence in him as the lead physician.

Logistics were also discussed. With the exception of when it was being used for board meetings, the administrative conference room—the one with those comfortable chairs House preferred—was put at their disposal. House was given a fifth-floor office near her own, complete with private half-bath, with the others to be spread out around the floor. She didn't want House having to go up and down to his old office more than he had to. The new space included a couch, nestled against one wall, just in case he needed to rest.

She had never asked how he'd working things out with the Diagnostics staff, but she hadn't heard any grumbling, so she assumed everything was fine. She was mostly right. The part she hadn't counted on is that he'd trained his people too well. Because of their time with House, they liked solving mysteries, and now they had one they couldn't quite resist.

…to be continued…


	7. Chapter 7: Odd Phone Calls

**A Gentle Knock at the Door**

_A sequel to Priority's Exigencies, which is a sequel to DIYSheep's The Contract._

_After being tortured and falsely imprisoned for Cameron's murder, House attempts to reclaim his life and career. Just as his life is getting back on track, he receives disturbing news that threatens to disrupt his recovery._

**Chapter 7:** _**Odd Phone Calls**_

**W**hile House was finishing up with Cuddy, the phone was ringing in Diagnostics. Chase answered.

"Is Dr. House there?" said the female voice on the other end.

Chase noted the Boston area code on the phone display. What should he say? It's not like House got calls from the outside every day. "He's not available right now," he said finally. "May I take a message?"

"Uh, no," said the voice. "Do you know when he'll be in? I can call back."

Peculiar, thought Chase. "I'm not sure of his schedule. It would be better if you left a message."

"No, that's okay. I'll try back later."

Several more odd calls came in over the next couple of hours. Chase, Rajghatta and Foreman took a handful of messages, mostly from news organizations, and wondered what the hell was going on.

*** * * * **

**H**ouse went straight to Room 304 when he was finished with Cuddy. It was a relief not to have to go through a police guard to enter the room, although it dawned on him that Cuddy might want to post her own security person at the door for the time being, just to be safe. He made a mental note to ask her to arrange it.

Michael Samura was the nurse on duty again when House pushed the door open and shambled in. Slouched in the comfy chair by Rainie's bed, the nurse was reading a newspaper. Well, that's a step up from romance novels, thought House.

He looked up and smiled. "`Morning, Dr. House. How's it going?"

"I'm fine," said House. "How's the patient?"

Apparently, the ICU team had just checked her over. Mostly, she slept. And slept. Which, House thought, was probably the best thing for her. He knew from Wilson that he'd slept 23 hours out of every 24 for weeks after his release, as his body struggled to heal itself. Of course, that hadn't actually been possible, but the human body did have its ways of trying to deal with injury.

What they didn't know yet, because Rainie hadn't been awake enough, was her mental state, apart from the PTSD. Based on his own experience, he was confident that she believed everything she'd seen or heard since she arrived at the hospital was a dream or hallucination, that she was really back in her cell awaiting the next horror.

Before long, they were going to have to break the news about her daughter. Secretly, House hoped he wouldn't have to be in the room for that one, that Jacey Liu, the psychiatrist, could take care of it.

*** * * ***

**N**ext.

Time to touch base with the kids. Bypassing his office, he hobbled right into the conference room, where he found his staff, their backs to the door, deep in discussion and facing the white board, which was filled with notes.

Clearly, they weren't expecting him. The notes had nothing to do with a patient.

"H in hospital"

"Press calling"

"Special case—long-term"

"Surgeries?"

"Available by cell"

"Trusts us—yeah, right"

"WTF?"

More than a little amused, House composed his features and cleared his throat. All three of them jumped. Their conversation came to an abrupt halt.

"Uh, hi, House," said Chase after a few seconds, as Devi flushed and looked down at the floor. Foreman had that determined look he got on his face when he was dead wrong about something.

"So…," said House, nodding toward the white board, "what's the case?" As if he didn't know. Oh, boy, he thought. This was going to be fun.

"Well, um," "It's nothing much, really." "We're just getting started on it." They stumbled over themselves trying to come up with something. House stifled a laugh.

"Well, what's it about?" He hobbled over to the board and scrutinized the notes intently, as if he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

"I think I understand everything except your last item," he said finally, as if he'd been cogitating over a difficult case. He turned to face them. "I don't recognize that medical term. What does it mean?"

We're toast, thought Chase. Maybe I can just crawl in a hole and die right here.

Taking a breath, he looked House right in the eye and gave him a wry grin and a slight nod that said, "Okay, you caught us. The jig is up." House acknowledged him with a barely perceptible mischievous look in his eye. He wasn't going to let the others off so easily.

"Foreman," he said, "would you kindly go over the salient points of this case for me? I'd like to be brought up to speed."

The old fart, thought Chase with amusement.

Foreman, who tended to be better at bluster than lies, said nothing. He looked trapped.

Devi continued to look at the floor. This is it, she thought. I'm going to lose this fellowship after all. There's no way he's going to let me stay on after this.

"Raja."

Reluctantly, she looked up to see House towering over her, his piercing eyes seeming to look right through her.

"Yes, Dr. House?"

"You'll tell me, won't you?"

Sighing, she nodded her head. Might as well go out honestly, she thought.

"We were… well, concerned about you," she started, not quite knowing what to say next.

"So you turned me into a puzzle?"

She looked down again and slowly nodded her head. "Yes," she whispered.

"Have you neglected any patients to play this game?"

"No, sir." It was true. It had been pretty quiet since the middle of last week, which, come to think of it, was the last time they'd seen House for very long.

"Have you solved the mystery yet?"

"No."

"Okay, then. Carry on."

He turned his back and left the room, leaving his staff staring after him.

*** * * ***

**H**ouse spent the rest of the morning in his new office. Earlier in the day, Cuddy had sent James from Operations to move a few things upstairs. In addition to the medical journals he'd been reviewing, he'd asked for his oversized tennis ball, his comfortable desk chair and a few of his toys. IT would move his computer later on.

Much better view from up here, he thought as he leaned back in the chair and looked out the fifth floor window. He closed his eyes and fell asleep almost immediately, wakened sometime later by Wilson's quiet tap at the door. "House, it's me."

After a simple (but fattening) lunch with Wilson, House took another short nap before the meeting with his new team. He was going to need all the rest he could get.

Stretching his neck and shoulders after waking up, he found he still had nearly an hour before the meeting. Better check on those phone messages, he thought. Suddenly, he realized he and Cuddy had made a strategic error. Damn it, he thought. How could I be so stupid? He'd told Roberts to give his cell number to Rainie's friends. That would be fine, except her friends were going to be newspaper reporters. He slammed his crutches into the side of the desk and scowled, shaking his head with exasperation. What an idiot I am! Better tell Cuddy before something blows. He dialed her extension, all the more irritated when he got her voicemail.

"Cuddy, it's House. Call me. Important." He hung up, disgusted.

A few minutes after two, Cuddy got back to her office after a productive lunch with a prospective donor. The light was blinking on her phone. As soon as she got the message, she raced out of her office, past her astonished assistant, and headed toward House's new office.

Out of breath, she flung open the door, asking, "What? What is it? What's wrong?!"

He looked up at her. "Oh, we're idiots. That's all." He explained. When the enormity of what they'd done hit her, she sat down suddenly in the chair across from his desk, flung her head back and closed her eyes, sighing with annoyance.

"Yes," she acknowledged, after she'd regained her composure. "Yes, we are. The question is, what are we going to do about it?"

House had been wondering the same thing. "Well, first off, I guess I'd better listen to these messages. Maybe we've been lucky and dodged a bullet." But he doubted it, and so did Cuddy, who paged Janice Pierson, the head of public relations.

While Cuddy sat expectantly on the edge of the chair, House checked the five or six messages on his cell, putting them on speaker so Cuddy could hear. The first couple seemed innocuous enough—just friends of Rainie's from the _Times_ who wanted to find out more about her condition. But the third one… yes, they were screwed. Evan Schuster, clearly a better reporter, after asking about Rainie, wanted to know why he'd been given the number of a cell phone belonging to Gregory House. The remainder were okay.

House rubbed the back of his thumb across his chin, the stubble making a rasping noise as he thought.

"I think we're just going to have to face the music and dance," he said, finally. "Is there any way to do damage control on our own stupidity?"

Pierson arrived moments later, also out of breath. "What's going on?" she asked, as she settled herself in the other chair. They explained.

"Ooooh. That's a good one, isn't it?" she said. She'd never struck House as the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but at the moment he needed her, and maybe her PR expertise would make up for her general inanity. Her forte seemed to be the good news of the hospital: promotions, new discoveries, donations, fundraising events—that sort of thing. He'd never seen her without a plastic smile on her face, and even now, he noticed, she was smiling in that fake way she had. Behind her eyes no one was home. He decided this was a waste of time.

Cuddy apparently realized that Pierson wasn't going to be much help, either. She'd have to take the bull by the horns. "Okay," she said. "Here's the deal. In addition to the ones who've already called, we're getting a list of people Joe Roberts has talked to, the ones he thinks are Rainie's closest friends. Presumably, they won't want to do anything that will harm her recovery, right?" She didn't wait for a response. "How about if we tell them that Rainie's health—even her life—may depend on keeping this quiet? It's essentially true, isn't it? I mean, I know they're reporters, but if they're friends of hers, maybe they'll keep a lid on it. They're from the _Times_, after all, not the _Post_."

Sounded like as much of a plan as they were going to get out of a bad situation, House thought. But… well, he'd better spit it out. "Okay, fine. But what if they tell someone else? There's nothing to keep the _Times_ from sending out a staff email about it. They may have done it already." As if to confirm this worst-case scenario, House's cell phone began to vibrate on the desk, sliding around in a large, irregularly shaped pattern as it buzzed. They stared at it till the buzzing stopped.

"How about this," said Cuddy tentatively. "How about we tell them you've been brought in as a consultant? They don't need to know you're the lead. If we really get pushed up against the wall, we can put out a tactfully worded press release to that effect."

Unless someone came up with something brilliant, House thought—meaning him or Cuddy, because he had no confidence in Janice Pierson—that would have to do. He nodded his grim agreement.

Nobody said this was going to be easy. Time for his three o'clock meeting.

…to be continued…


	8. Chapter 8: The Team

**A Gentle Knock at the Door**

_A sequel to Priority's Exigencies, which is a sequel to DIYSheep's The Contract._

_After being tortured and falsely imprisoned for Cameron's murder, House attempts to reclaim his life and career. Just as his life is getting back on track, he receives disturbing news that threatens to disrupt his recovery._

**Chapter 8: **_**The Team**_

**H**ouse sat in a comfortable chair pulled up to the center of the conference room table. His crutches were leaning on the table next to him. Behind him was a large blank whiteboard. Seated around him was his new team, and in front of each member of the team was a packet that contained, among other things, copies of Rainie's Adler's medical records. Wilson sat at one end of the table, on House's right, and Naveen Ajunta was at the other.

"Look," said House, after the introductions, "there are things you need to know going into this. First off, it isn't going to be easy. Second… well, I'll get to the second thing in a minute." He reached into his breast pocket for his bestest friend, popped the top on the pill bottle and shook one Vicodin tablet into his mouth, washing it down with a swig of Coke. The last hour has been so harried, he hadn't taken his pill, and he could feel the effects of his morning dose wearing off rapidly.

"First off," he continued. "Oh, wait. I said that already. Second off, everything that happens here—and I mean everything—is confidential. You are not to say a word to a single soul about treatments, progress, our discussions and so on. If anything gets out, especially to the press, it could jeopardize our patient… and you will be fired immediately. Understood?" He flinched a little when he mentioned the press. Of course, if your lead physician is stupid enough to spill the beans, well, then, that's different, he thought cynically.

He looked around the table. Everyone nodded solemnly. "Just to make sure we're all in agreement about this, I've asked the legal department to work up a confidentiality agreement. It's the first item in your packet. Please take a minute to read it over carefully and sign it. I won't be moving on until I've got everyone's agreement."

The room grew silent as the high-powered medical personnel read what the legal department had prepared for them. Wilson signed his immediately, as did Naveen Ajunta. They passed the contracts toward the middle of the table. Five minutes later, all the agreements were signed and sitting in a stack in front of House.

"Great. Let's move on. I've included our patient's files in your packet. Don't bother to look them over now, but I want you to become completely familiar with her situation by the next time we meet… which is, if I remember correctly, tomorrow. I'd like each of you to come in with suggestions and proposals for how you think her long-term care should be handled. We'll collate all the information and develop a strategy. Is that good?" He looked around the table for approval, and got it.

"Next, I want to make sure Rainie is not overwhelmed, so I want visits with her coordinated through Dr. Ajunta here at the end of the table." Ajunta waved his hand. "I'd prefer it if no more than two of us are in the room with her at any given time. You need to know how to approach her, and what to do if something goes wrong. Dr. Wilson, could you give them an overview of the best way to approach the patient?"

Wilson looked at the assembly. Thus far, he'd been marveling at his friend. House seemed calm and professional and in complete control of the situation. It was the perfect way to inspire confidence in his abilities. Good going, buddy, he thought. Good going.

Without elaborating on how he came by this knowledge, Wilson instructed the group about how to enter the room, how to talk, how to touch the patient. Should she become agitated, he said, page Dr. House immediately. If he wasn't available, try Dr. Ajunta or himself. Stand back and speak softly in a soothing tone of voice until one of them arrived.

"Any questions so far?" asked House. A large man near Dr. Ajunta cleared his throat.

"Yes, Mr. Yuen." Yuen was a physical therapist.

"Dr. House. At what point do you want the patient's physical therapy to begin and in what kind of cycles?"

"Good question, Yuen. I think we can start gentle massage therapy now, if it doesn't agitate the patient too much. Why don't you and Coffey and DuBois work out a schedule, and get back to me in an hour or so?" House thought for a moment about how to say this next part without overtly giving himself away.

"You need to be aware, though, that it's very likely that the patient will find human touch very difficult to tolerate. Her pain levels will be quite high, probably unlike anything you've run across before, and even the gentlest touch may bring on disturbing emotional flashbacks. You will have to be unusually sensitive to her reactions. Why don't we start very carefully, with one to two sessions a day and see how it goes? I want detailed daily case reports. At tomorrow's meeting, tell us how it went. If you'd like, I can be in the room with you for the first few sessions, to monitor how things are going."

Mr. Yuen and his colleagues agreed that having House present would be reassuring. No other questions were forthcoming.

Although the elephant was now in the room, no one at the table mentioned it. In as dispassionate a way possible, House had alluded to his own trauma, but had maintained control of the room in doing so. So far, so good, he thought. Now, here's the capper.

"There's one more thing you need to be aware of. Given my own medical condition, plus a couple of surgeries I'll need to have in the next few weeks, I may not always be able to be as hands on as I'd like. If I am not available, Dr. Ajunta and/or Dr. Wilson will be in charge. You have their pager numbers and their cell phone information in your packet."

He'd thought through the wording of this news very carefully. He was aware that the entire team knew what had happened to him and knew that he was still recovering… that, in fact, he would spend the rest of his life recovering. (_They know who you are. They know who you were. They know what happened to you._) But he wanted to make it clear that this did not make him a weak leader. Quite the contrary, he wanted to present himself as someone who had unique skills for this particular task. Wilson would undoubtedly tell him later if he'd been successful.

"See you all tomorrow. Goodnight and good luck."

He stayed seated until everyone but Wilson had left the room before he allowed himself to relax. Taking a very deep breath and blowing it out through his mouth, he looked at his friend.

"So…?"

Wilson was impressed and had no problem saying so. "House, you were great." Maybe he was up to this after all. He helped House back to his office, and made arrangements to drive him home between five and six.

*** * * ***

**A**lthough growing quite weary, House returned the now eight messages from his cell phone, careful to say to each person that he was just helping out a little by accepting messages. A couple of Rainie's friends broke down in tears on the phone, and House managed to refrain from saying anything too Housian. Three of the others, including Evan Schuster, the most persistent reporter, wanted to come see her the next day, but House convinced them that her condition was too critical for any visitors just yet. They insisted that they would call him again the next day, and tried to pump him for information about Rainie's condition and, in Schuster's case, about his involvement with the case. House was noncommittal on both counts.

By the time he was done with the calls, he had made up his mind to palm this part of the job off on Ajunta, who would undoubtedly handle it better than he had. Certainly Ajunta wouldn't be as impatient with people's emotional reactions. Plus having a Dr. Naveen Ajunta returning calls might not raise the same red flags his name did. He decided to remove the outgoing message on his cell phone, also, to get his name out of the mix.

Just as he'd hung up from the final call, the physical therapy team returned with their schedule. House sighed to himself. He was going to have to get used to a faster pace if he was going to keep up.

Their schedule made sense: one session mid-morning and another in the late afternoon. Two therapists at a time, if she'd tolerate it. House doubted that she would, at least not at first, but was willing to give it a try. They wanted to see her in 10 minutes, if House was available. He'd agreed to be there if they wanted him, so despite his increasing desire to get home, he said he'd meet them at the door of Room 304. He grabbed his crutches. It would probably take him all 10 minutes just to get there.

Ten minutes later, everyone was present outside the room. Good, he thought. They're prompt. That will make a difference. Never the most punctual person himself, he did recognize how much it had mattered to him in his recovery having a sense of order about him.

"Who's on first?" he asked, stopping himself before he added, "What's on second?"

Jacob Yuen and Claudia DuBois told him they were elected. Quietly, House opened the door. Nurse Samura was still on duty—probably just finishing up his shift—and House beckoned him over to ask how Rainie was doing.

"Still sleeping a lot," he said, quietly "She woke up briefly a couple of hours ago, but drifted right off again. She seemed to be in a lot of pain, though, and I just asked the ICU team to consider upping her meds."

House nodded, explaining to Samura what they were going to try. Then he told the PTs that he would go in first and try to wake her, just to see how it went. He asked them all, including Michael Samura, to stay back by the sliding glass doorway until he gave them the high sign that it was okay to come closer. For Rainie's privacy, the blinds covering the glass walls had been kept closed.

He edged near the bed, sitting down in the comfy chair, leaning his crutches on the arm. He watched Rainie Adler for a moment, getting himself in tune with her breathing. It was irregular, which he recognized as her attempt to breathe around the pain. After a couple of minutes, he whispered her name. She didn't react. He tried again, this time a little louder. Her eyelids fluttered.

He was so focused on what he was doing that he completely forgot there were people watching him from the doorway. In the old days, he would rather have run down the street naked than have anyone catch him interacting with a patient. It was probably just as well that he didn't know a couple of passing residents had joined the group at the door. Or that another was bringing over a nurse to witness the unheard-of event.

"Come on, Rainie," he said again, even louder. "Time to wake up." Her eyelids fluttered again, and she moaned softly. "Atta girl. Rise and shine," he said, subconsciously mimicking the same phrases Wilson often used with him. Slowly, Rainie Adler opened her eyes, fighting the desire to slip back into her drugged slumber.

Huh, she thought. There's that face again. It was looking at her tenderly and moving its lips. I wonder what it's saying, she thought. Experimentally, she lifted her head just a little and heard her name in that deep, rough baritone. It knows me, she thought.

Looking over the side of the bed, she saw the damaged hand, the one that had touched her so gently… when...? …sometime. She reached out for it, but withdrew her arm suddenly when a spasm of pain flooded through her. "_Djuuuuh…_," she cried, her breath catching in her throat.

"It's okay, Rainie," whispered the husky voice. "I'm here to help you." The hand reached out slowly toward her and gently stroked her arm. "Is it okay if a physical therapist comes over to massage your sore spots?"

Hesitantly, she examined the face. Although she felt somehow she could trust him—why?—she was sure she didn't want anyone else touching her. She struggled to get words out. It had been so long since she'd spoken.

"No…," she finally said in a hoarse contralto, barely vocalizing the sounds as they left her lips. "I… want… _you_."

The face melted, the blue eyes filling with tears.

House struggled to regain control of his emotions. She was so fragile, but somehow in just a few sessions he'd managed to gain her trust. Is this how Wilson had felt with him?

"I can't massage you, Rainie. My hands don't work right." He carefully held up both hands for her to see.

She gazed at his hands intently, and then glanced down at her own left hand, which was lying on top of the blanket. He shuddered involuntarily, seeing on her the same kind of damage he recognized in himself. Their eyes met for a second in perfect understanding. _We belong to a secret fraternity that no one else would ever want to join._

"May I bring the physical therapist over?" he asked. "I'll stay right here with you the whole time."

She looked into those blue eyes, swallowed her fear and nodded slightly.

House looked toward the door to wave Yuen over, and was startled to see a crowd of about ten people peering in. He glared at them, suddenly annoyed. The rubberneckers quickly scattered, leaving only the PTs and Samura. "Yuen," he whispered. "Come here."

When Yuen got near the chair, House motioned for him to lean down. "If that ever happens again, you're all gone. Got it?" he whispered decidedly in Yuen's ear.

"Yes, Dr. House." Yuen looked scared. He should be scared, thought House. This isn't a game. Funny I should think that, given how many times I've made patient care a game. But I always knew when it was serious.

At House's nod, Yuen came closer to the bed. Rainie looked a little frightened, and kept her eyes on House's face.

"It's okay, Rainie. This is Jacob Yuen. He's one of our best physical therapists. He can help you with your pain. Is it okay if he touches your arm? He'll be very gentle."

Her eyes wide, Rainie Adler took a deep breath and nodded her assent. She winced slightly when Yuen's hand touched her left arm. He poured some lotion on his hands, rubbing them back and forth to warm them, and gently—ever so gently—began to massage her arm and shoulder, careful to work around the bruised areas. When he got to her back, however, she flinched, rolling her shoulders away from him, protectively. Her eyes, which never left House's face, showed barely controlled terror.

"I think that's enough," said House to Yuen, dismissing him. "We'll do some more tomorrow."

After Yuen left the room, House leaned closer to Rainie. He carefully lifted his right hand so she could see what he was doing, and gently placed it on her forearm. She relaxed. He moved his hand up her arm and shoulder, and then onto her back. She didn't resist him. Despite some ongoing numbness in his fingertips, House could feel the scars on her body. They were particularly pronounced on her back, as they were on his. The back was less sensitive than other areas, and whenever possible, he had offered his back up for the regular violence. Apparently, Rainie had, too.

"You go back to sleep now, okay?" he whispered. She looked up at him. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Gathering his crutches, he pushed himself out of the plush chair with a groan and began ambulating across the room. She never blinked as she watched him limp away.

At the doorway, House reiterated his stern warning to the others. Before he left, he gave Samura the okay to up her meds. He glanced back into the room to see Rainie's eyes still on him.

*** * * ***

**H**ouse was sound asleep on the sofa, the remains of dinner on the coffee table in front of him. He was slumped over on the armrest, a pillow propped behind his head and a blanket half covering his legs.

Linda and Wilson were in the kitchen cleaning up when the phone rang. House woke with a start, grabbing for the living room extension at the same time Wilson picked up the kitchen phone.

"What? What is it?" said Wilson. House heard Cuddy on the other end, saying "Turn on your TV. Channel 2. NOW!"

Wilson ran into the living room still clutching the kitchen phone as House fumbled with the remote. They got to Channel 2, just in time to catch the tail end of a promo for the newscast coming up in the next half-hour. All they heard was "…torture victim at local hospital. Stay tuned."

"Cuddy? You still there?" asked Wilson. With House listening on the extension, they got the rest of the information. As House and Cuddy had feared, it sounded from the promo as if they had the whole story. They got it from somewhere. Who had spilled the beans? House hoped it wasn't one of his new team. He didn't relish the idea of firing someone so soon. And who else had known? Cuddy, Wilson, House, Joe Roberts of the FBI and now the team. That was it, wasn't it? Oh, and the prison staff. Unless someone else at the hospital had gotten the information. How about one of the rubberneckers today?

Wilson sat down on the sofa next to House and they waited. They waited through the second half of a singularly unfunny sitcom, nine commercials and two public service announcements. Finally, the news started. Occasionally, Wilson would glance at House to see how he was holding up. He looked pale and he was breathing shallowly, but his jaw was set and he looked determined to know the worst.

"And now…. News at Eleven on 2" came the booming male voice as the graphics twirled and flashed. Sure enough, there it was, right at the top of the show. A photo of House—fortunately, it was the good PR image from before his imprisonment—floated in mid-air above the anchor's right shoulder. "You'll remember a few months ago we reported on the story of Dr. Gregory House, the tortured doctor who had returned to his old job at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

They rehashed the entire story, from Cameron's murder to House's conviction to Thompson's death to House's release.

"We haven't heard much about the doctor since, but now our field reporter, Sally Juniper, brings us this late-breaking news about Dr. House."

The camera cut to the front of PPTH.

"Thanks John. Dr. Gregory House, who was nearly tortured to death while unjustly imprisoned as part of a vendetta by the late businessman Robert Thompson, is back in the headlines tonight. According to our inside sources, Dr. House is handling the case of a _New York Times_ reporter also tortured and falsely imprisoned by Thompson. The reporter, Maureen Adler, had her conviction overturned on Friday and is in intensive care at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

"Our sources say Dr. House is leading a team of doctors who will be trying to bring this brave woman back from the brink of death. Dr. House was reportedly in Ms. Adler's hospital room earlier this evening, speaking with her about her experiences. Our source reports that he was seen crying. Given his own trauma, it's hard to believe that he would be able to handle the emotions involved in working on such a similar case, and this incident suggests that his emotional stability may be in jeopardy. Let's hope that doesn't affect his patient's care.

"So far, we have been unable to reach Dr. House for comment, but we'll bring you further developments on this remarkable story as they become available. This is Sally Juniper in Princeton. Back you, John."

Wilson hit the mute button on the remote. House was staring at a spot on the wall somewhere above the television and below the ceiling. He looked sick. The phone rang again. Cuddy. Wilson put her on speaker.

"House? Are you okay?" she asked.

He didn't say anything, but grabbed his crutches.

"House? House?"

As fast as he could, which wasn't very fast, House made his way to the bathroom.

"Hold on, Cuddy. Let me call you back," said Wilson, getting up from the sofa and heading back to where House was vomiting into the toilet.

…to be continued…


	9. Chapter 9: It Made Him Sick

**Chapter 9**

"It Made Him Sick."

**H**alf an hour later, Wilson called Cuddy back from the privacy of his own place. He'd left House with Linda, who was cleaning him up, giving him a massage and trying to calm him down.

"What was that all about?" asked Cuddy.

"You want the candy-coated version or the real deal?" asked Wilson. He tended to pass out the candy-coated version of things pertaining to House.

"Real deal."

"It made him sick. Physically sick. When I hung up with you, he was heaving in the bathroom."

"Dear lord," said Cuddy, shocked. "I had no idea."

"He's shaken and he's very angry."

"Understandably," said Cuddy. "It was one thing when we thought _The New York Times_ might put two and two together, but it's a whole different thing when someone in our own hospital catches a private moment between doctor and patient, and then reports it to a TV station. It has to be playing into his own insecurities about taking on Rainie's case."

Wilson agreed. "He doesn't know if it's one of his own team, the nurse in the room, or someone passing by. He said there were about six or seven doctors and nurses in the doorway gawking at him as he was trying to reach Rainie."

"What!?!" Cuddy was furious. She hadn't known; she'd deal with that in the morning. Hating to ask her next question, although she thought she already knew the answer, she asked, "Did he really cry?"

"I didn't presume to ask," said Wilson, "but if I had to guess, I'd say yes, only because he was so upset about the news report. It's incredibly hard for him to open up in the first place, and then to have your most vulnerable moment as the lead story on the nightly news. Not to mention the suggestion that he's not competent because of it. He's certainly been through it before, but this is different. He must feel in a way as if he got raped again."

There it was, out in the open. The one aspect of House's torment she'd tried very hard not to think about. Rape. The thought of it made her feel ill. An invasion of the body, the soul, the spirit, a degrading, humiliating experience that made the victim utterly defenseless. Her stomach churned. Something about the way Wilson said it made Cuddy realize for the first time that House must have been raped more than once, and probably often. It was horrible. She couldn't bear thinking about it. When she finally spoke, it was in a quiet voice. "How's he doing now?"

"Dunno. I'm headed back over as soon as you and I are finished here. What are you planning to do about this?"

"First thing in the morning, I'm interviewing everyone who was at that door or passing by yesterday afternoon. Let's hope I can find out who did it… and that it wasn't one of House's people. When I find out, that person's ass is grass. Then, damage control. I feel so bad—I tried so hard to protect House this time, and I've failed him again. He doesn't deserve this."

"You couldn't have seen this coming, Cuddy. You thought you had all the bases covered. Who knew there'd be a snitch? If it's someone on the team, he's already warned them they'll be fired if anything gets leaked. If it's not… well, that's actually better for him. Then it's just a lone idiot, instead of a betrayal."

"I'll keep you in the loop," said Cuddy.

"Thanks."

Wilson suddenly heard loud noises coming from the other side of the duplex.

"Something's up. Gotta go."

He ran out his front door and into House's place. He found House crumpled on the floor of the living room near a broken chair and a smashed vase, his crutches scattered out of his reach. He ran to his friend's side.

"What happened, House? Are you okay?"

House didn't answer. Wilson looked up at Linda, who shook her head.

"Come on, big guy. I turn my back for a second and you can't keep your feet under you?"

House glared at the floor.

"It's impossible," he said to no one in particular.

"What is?"

"Everything." He struggled to sit up. Wilson and Linda helped him back to the couch. After they'd made him as comfortable as they could, he went on, bitterly. "I can't do my job. I can't live my life. I can't do anything without becoming the freak that everyone has to gape at, that everyone wants a piece of. I can't even protect my patient." His head dropped to his chest. "I just want to do my job and be left alone."

For some reason, Wilson thought back to the nightmare of a few days ago, when House begged to die. He didn't know what to say. His friend was on a huge emotional rollercoaster right now, after months of detachment and numbness, and all he knew to do as a friend and colleague was ride along with him.

They sat silently for nearly half an hour, as Linda massaged House's neck and shoulders, the only sound an occasional grunt or moan.

Finally, House looked at Wilson, took a deep breath and gave him a resigned half-smile. "Okay, I'm over it. Pity party done. Time to move on. But I'd better not find out one of my people leaked that to the press, or they'll really have something to report. 'Tortured Doctor Kills Physical Therapist.' Yeah, that'll be a great headline. Hilarious."

Wilson smiled wanly. "Let's get you to bed. Do you need any more pain meds? I think you're ready for another Vicodin."

"I'm always ready for another Vicodin," said House, sincerely.

*** * * ***

**B**y mid-morning Tuesday, Cuddy had the whole story, and in a sick sort of way, it had a happy ending. She called Wilson, and asked him to please pass the news to House, when he thought House was ready to hear it.

"Turns out, one of the guys hanging out in the doorway was a buddy of Alan Pevey's. He pumped Michael Samura for information about who the patient was, and found out that House was lead on the case. Couldn't wait to run off to Pevey and spill his guts about what he'd seen—especially the part about the great House crying over an injured patient. Pevey called Channel 2. And Channel 4. And and and… Fortunately, only Channel 2 was willing to run such sensational material."

"So what can you do about it?" asked Wilson. "Pevey's tenured, isn't he?"

"Yes, but that's the beauty about the way this happened. Because it was so blatantly malicious, detrimental to the health and wellbeing of two patients—House and Rainie—and is so well documented, I have no problem taking this to the board—minus Pevey, of course. The board can fire him. _I_ can fire Pevey's cohort, and in fact, already have. And I've reprimanded Michael Samura, and removed him from Rainie's care."

"You know I'll back you up. Are you calling a special session?"

"Try and stop me. It'll be ASAP, preferably today."

"I'll be there. With pleasure."

Her desk was covered in phone messages from news outlets. Damn it, she thought, sitting down to her desk to start drafting a press release. Why can't House catch a break?

*** * * ***

**H**ouse kept his head down as got off the elevator. He'd already noticed a couple of people who must have recognized him; they were whispering. He gritted his teeth and unlocked his office door, shutting it behind him. Once he was settled, he listened to Wilson's message about Pevey. Well, he thought. That's an interesting twist. He was more relieved than he was willing to admit that the snitch was not one of his people and was connected to Pevey. Ever since he'd returned to work, he'd dreaded running into Pevey, who had made it very clear he thought Greg House had gotten what he deserved. There had been several confrontations, episodes that left House shaking.

Before things got more out of hand, House figured he'd better deal with the kids. Foreman answered the conference room phone.

"Foreman, I need to talk to the three of you right away," said House. "Can you get up to my office? My other office, I mean. It's 527—as soon as you can?"

Foreman hung up the phone. "Come on," he said. "Something's up. Bet it's about the news last night."

When they entered his office, they found House sitting in his Eames chair, turning the oversized tennis ball around in his hands.

"Sit," he said, nodding toward a small round table and chairs. They sat.

"Let's get this over with," he said, gruffly. "Who saw the news last night?"

Foreman and Devi raised their hands. Chase shrugged his shoulders in agreement.

House scratched the stubble on his chin as he tried to come up with the right way to put it.

"Hate to cut short all your hard detective work, but here's the answer to your little mystery. Yes, I've offered to be the lead physician for Maureen Adler's long-term care. You got the gist of her story on the news. Cuddy, for some insane reason, took me up on it. Because we knew this would be a hot topic, we kept things quiet. However," he said, allowing himself a moment of anger, "_someone_ decided this was the perfect story for the evening news. Any questions?"

Any questions? Of course they had questions—tons of them. But few they were willing to ask. They did ask if the snitch was anyone they knew. He gave them the name and told them the person had been fired and removed from the premises.

Devi looked at House. His body was tense, his face angry but controlled. "Dr. House?" He continued staring at the floor. "We've been getting calls from the press for the last couple of days. We haven't told them anything…"

House looked up. "I didn't think you would," he said.

Devi felt strangely elated.

"We do need to know how you want those calls handled," she finished.

"Keep taking messages. Get them to me every so often. I'll work it out with Cuddy. Anything else?"

They were dying to ask about Maureen Adler, about why House felt he had to work with someone whose case was bound to bring up his own horrible memories, about whether he could handle it, and whether or not he'd really been caught crying. But they weren't going to ask those questions. Besides, he wouldn't have answered them anyway. Instead, they asked a couple of administrative questions. Just as they were standing up to leave, there was a knock at the door.

"Dr. House? It's Jacob Yuen."

"Come."

The three physical therapists entered as the three diagnosticians left. They exchanged glances in passing, all six of them looking disturbed and thoughtful.

This was going to be a hell of a day, thought House. "Okay. Let's get it over with. You saw the news. You're wondering what's going on, how I'm doing, and if one of you was responsible. Short version: We're still treating Ms. Adler, how I'm doing is none of your goddamn business, and none of you called the press. However, one of our rubberneckers from yesterday did. He's been fired and is already gone. Other steps are being taken. In short, you are all responsible. So is Michael Samura… and so am I. We'll deal with what to do about it at the meeting."

The three looked uneasy.

"In the meantime, new rules. No one—and I mean NO ONE—gets access to anything we're doing without my express okay. That woman is to be protected. It's very likely, now that the news is out, that we're in for a siege for a while. Some of these tabloid people will stop at nothing to get a photo or a story, especially one that intrudes on other people's privacy." He stopped short of saying, "I should know."

"You may be approached or even offered bribes. Report everything back to me. Keep an eye on who is seen near Rainie's room when you're there. Security has been posted outside her room and at both ends of the hall for the time being, and has been beefed up around the building. Be my eyes and ears, if you can. Our patient's life and wellbeing may depend on it."

House stood up slowly. All this tension didn't help how his body felt. Leaning heavily on his crutches, he made his way to the door.

"Now, let's go see if we can get a little further on physical therapy than we did yesterday."

*** * * ***

**T**his morning's massage session went a little better than yesterday's. The guard outside made sure the room was blocked from the curious. Rainie responded even more quickly to House and allowed a little more physio than she had the night before, although still with only one therapist, this time Claudia. And House didn't cry.

He needed to rest after Rainie's physio. Around lunchtime, Wilson found him slumped down in his chair, his long legs up on the ottoman. "Hey, big guy," said Wilson, gently touching House's arm. "Atta boy. Rise and shine." House opened his eyes.

"How's it going?"

"Not bad." The naps did help.

"I think Cuddy wants to see you after lunch."

"Not surprised."

They ate in silence. Today's treat was a gigantic snickerdoodle. Neither of them commented on it, but House knew Wilson was trying to make up for the dinner he'd thrown up last night.

When House checked in with Cuddy, she updated him on the press situation. It wasn't good. Dozens and dozens of calls had been placed to the hospital from reporters around the world trying to get the inside track on Maureen Adler and Greg House. A couple of tabloid photographers had been caught inside the hospital, and were ejected. He told her his idea of having Dr. Ajunta return the calls made to his cell phone; she agreed that was as good a plan as any. Right after he left her office, she sent an email to the entire staff, establishing the ground rules for dealing with the press and with the medical team, presenting a stern warning about what would happen to anyone who violated the rules.

After another short nap, House made his way to the conference room to meet with his team. He could see hospital personnel taking sidelong glances at him as he moved slowly through the hall, and a couple of times he heard whispers come to an abrupt halt as he neared.

Most of the group was already present when he arrived. Wilson was standing in the doorway chatting with orthopedist Karen Langley, but Ajunta was already seated. Settling himself into the center chair again—_his_ chair, apparently—House looked around. Everyone looked grim. Better deal with it head on, he thought.

"I'm sure you all know at least part of what went on yesterday, since it's been splashed all over the news, and everyone in the hospital seems to find it infinitely more interesting than tending to their own business," he began. "Because they were present, I'd like the physical therapy team to explain to you what happened."

Yuen, Coffey and DuBois squirmed a little before Claudia DuBois reluctantly spoke up. "It was very unfortunate," she said, "and we take full responsibility for the situation." Looking down at the table, she described the crowd of curious onlookers, and said that she and the other PTs should have taken charge and removed them from the doorway.

"We're very sorry, Dr. House," she concluded.

"Sorry doesn't undo the damage," he said, curtly. "I brought you on board because you came very highly recommended. The rest of us need to know you can do your jobs with particular sensitivity and discretion. So far, I can't say I'm impressed."

Naveen Ajunta stole a look at the faces around the table. Some were somber; others looked taken aback. A couple were nodding their heads.

"However, this was an unusual circumstance, and I'm willing to give you all a second chance, provided everyone else around this table agrees. If we're going to be able to help Rainie Adler, we need to be able trust each other."

Ha. That was rich. Greg House, who hadn't been so hot at the trusting thing before Thompson entered his life and certainly hadn't improved since, talking about trust. He brushed aside his self-inflicted analysis.

He looked around in time to see Wilson slide into a vacant chair across the table. "What do you say? Comments? I'd like to know if any of you have reservations about continuing to work with these three."

House took a breath. In for a dime, in for a dollar.

"Or, for that matter, with me," he added, acknowledging unspoken concerns. He looked down at the table.

Instantly, the room became very still. No one said anything. The tension was palpable. After a very long minute, Jacey Liu, the psychiatrist, spoke up.

"Dr. House, I'm only speaking for myself, but personally I am honored to be able to be part of this team. From my standpoint as a mental health specialist, I don't think you have done anything to be uneasy about. If you didn't have any emotional response to Rainie Adler and what's happened to her, then I'd be concerned.

"In my view, your own…" She paused, trying to formulate the right phrase. "…Your own personal history makes you extraordinarily right for this job. Let's all be honest about it," she said, looking at the faces around the table. "Every single person here knows your story. Not the details, but the outline at least. It's not a secret. We know you're still dealing with the aftereffects of something we can barely imagine."

A flash of emotions flickered swiftly across House's face. Mostly, he looked embarrassed that his personal history was common knowledge.

"This isn't news to any of us. When we agreed to be here, we knew going in how intense and painful this would be for you. From day one, my assumption has been that part of our job would be to support you as we all go through this together."

Several heads bobbed in agreement.

"So far, you've given me no reason to worry about your ability to lead us. Quite the contrary. The way you've conducted yourself has been exemplary. You showed courage in the face of an unimaginable nightmare, and you're continuing to show courage now."

The room remained silent, although the mood had shifted. House lowered his head, and seemed to be inspecting the PPTH logo on the coffee mug in front of him.

"Hear, hear," said a quiet voice from across the table. It was Karen Langley, the orthopedist. It was seconded by Naveen Ajunta. The tension was broken. "You've got my support," came another voice. Wilson just smiled as other voices chimed in. It was unanimous.

Wilson watched the scenario with considerable interest. All those years House had spent being snarky, pushing people away, making enemies, refusing to let anyone (except possibly Wilson himself) see beneath the surface, and now here he was getting public validation and support for behaving like a good guy. Poor House. He must really be confused. Served him right.

"Well," said House, finally, still looking down. "I should have known that anyone who spends as much time around sick people as you do must have picked up some kind of exotic brain disease. I just didn't know it was contagious." He heard a throaty chuckle from Wilson's side of the table. Not one of my better retorts, he thought—gotta work on the sardonic jibes.

"And what about Big Three, here?" asked House, pulling himself together and jerking his head toward the PTs. Despite his bluster, he was overwhelmed by the response. He fought back a stinging feeling behind his eyelids. Frankly, he'd fully expect a no-confidence vote, and would have been relieved if he'd gotten one. Now, he was stuck.

The PTs looked uncomfortable.

"I say we keep them on, but perhaps on a probationary basis for a while," suggested Ajunta. Everyone, including the three, agreed that would be best.

"Good. Moving on…" said House. So they did.

*** * * ***

**PRESS RELEASE**

For Immediate Release

Dr. Gregory House of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital has been appointed to head up a team of medical professionals in charge of the long-term care of Maureen Adler, a former _New York Times_ reporter who was admitted to PPTH last week in grave condition. Dr. House, who has a dual specialty in nephrology and infectious diseases, has been the head of the Diagnostic Medicine Department for many years. This morning, thanks to the care she has received from the medical team under Dr. House's leadership, Ms. Adler's condition was upgraded to critical but stable.

"We have complete confidence in Dr. House's ability to handle this case," said Dean of Medicine Dr. Lisa Cuddy, the hospital administrator. "He's one of the finest doctors in the world, and Princeton Plainsboro is lucky to have him on staff. Ms. Adler is fortunate to have him in charge of her medical team. She is in the best possible hands."

No additional information about this matter will be released to the press now or at any other time.

*** * * * **

**PRESS RELEASE**

For Immediate Release

In a unanimous decision, the board of directors of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital has requested the immediate removal from the staff of Dr. Alan Pevey, and has recommended that he be brought up before the American Medical Association on charges of endangering the lives and wellbeing of two patients. Dr. Pevey was dismissed from his duties following the meeting.

*** * * ***

**A**s the team filed out of the administrative conference room, Wilson came over and sat by House. "Did you really think you were going to get out of it that easily?" he asked. "This is another fine mess you've gotten yourself into, and they're not going to let you off the hook."

House grimaced and rolled his eyes. "I hired a bunch of idiots. I'd have fired my ass."

He staggered to his feet, gripping his crutches. After a long moment to gather his strength and get balanced, he began walking toward the door. Wilson jumped up to open it. "Age before beauty," he said, bowing.

"Pearls before swine," replied House, as he swept through the doorway.

*** * * ***

"**H**ey! D'ja you see this?"

Sally Juniper of Channel 2 News pointed at her computer screen. Neal Hutchins leaned over her shoulder and squinted to get a look at what she found so interesting.

"Look—PPTH just fired Pevey. Right after they announce that Dr. House _is_ in charge of the Adler case. Do ya think?"

"What else? Legal was on the phone with their guys the minute the piece aired."

"We'll have to get more creative. This stuff is too good. Did you see the overnights? Our ratings went through the roof. I don't want to let this go just `cause Pevey got his ass fired for being a jerk."

"It's great stuff. God, can you believe it—two people go through the same unbelievably horrific experience. And now one is the other's doctor. Doesn't get much better than this. It's just great."

They high-fived.


	10. Chapter 10: Listening to Her Breathe

**Chapter 10**

Listening to Her Breathe

**T**he pair of press releases popped up on another computer screen.

Hmmm. Interesting, thought Evan Schuster. These have to be related to that disgusting piece of shit story on Channel 2. The hospital was way too self-protective about why we were all given Dr. House's cell number, and then suddenly there's that scummy piece about how he's heading up Rainie's medical team and losing control at her bedside.

Can't blame them for wanting to keep his involvement quiet, he thought. It's just the kind of thing Channel 2 and the tabloids eat up. Makes my job as a journalist all that much harder. And it can't be good for Rainie's recovery to have all this commotion. Or, for that matter, he thought, for House's. The man _had_ to still be dealing with the aftereffects of what had been done to him. You don't just get over something like that. Probably ever.

Schuster had been sitting in the back of the courtroom two years ago when Gregory House testified against his tormenters. Even knowing the court order meant he wouldn't be able to write about any of the details, he'd sat there mesmerized, watching the painfully thin and broken doctor stare at the floor and talk in a low, hoarse voice for hours about how he'd been systematically starved and tortured on an almost daily basis, just to satisfy an insane vendetta. When he was finally done, everyone in the room was devastated. Schuster, not normally an emotional man, had been grateful for the Kleenex he'd thought to stuff in his pockets.

He was also in the room when House's conviction was overturned. He watched, stunned, as the man began to shake, turned deathly pale and then slid slowly to the floor.

Why would that man ever want to confront his memories like this? Why would he purposely take on the treatment of a patient in such a similar situation, he wondered, his journalistic instincts kicking in. Evan Schuster was the kind of person who was never able to leave alone a mystery or walk away from a puzzle; that's what made him a good reporter.

It had certainly raised a red flag for him when that FBI guy gave him House's name and number. After hearing that Rainie was at PPTH, he had talked on the phone briefly to Dr. House, recognizing the low, raspy voice from the trials. But House himself had been noncommittal. Schuster came away from the conversation knowing little or nothing about Rainie's condition—except that it was very serious—or even how House was connected to her. And when Schuster called to follow up, the cell had no answering message, and a Dr. Ajunta had returned his call.

"Hi, Mr. Schuster. This is Dr. Naveen Ajunta from Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. I understand you're a friend of Rainie Adler."

"You understand right, Dr.… was it Ajunta?"

"Yes, that's right." Ajunta didn't explain why he was now calling back instead of Dr. House, but Schuster was certainly curious.

"Could you tell me a little bit about what's happened? There are a few of us who'd like to see her if we can."

Dr. Ajunta cleared his throat. "Well, I'm afraid that won't be possible for quite a while," he said, ignoring the first part of the question. "Her condition is critical."

"I understand that," said Schuster. "I also think I understand what's happening. I saw Dr. House during his trials, so I have a fair idea of what I'm dealing with."

Dr. Ajunta didn't say anything.

"Look, I'm not a tabloid guy; I'm not going to put you on the spot. Yes, as a journalist, I've got enough curiosity to kill a thousand cats, but what's happened here is probably not the kind of story the _Times_ would publish, anyway. I recognize that you've got a delicate situation. I'm just a concerned friend."

"We appreciate that, Mr. Schuster. And I don't want to sound unhelpful, but the truth is that Ms. Adler's condition is very precarious. In addition to suffering multiple injuries, both external and internal, she is recovering from a serious infection. We're just taking it one day at a time. At this point, she's sleeping most of the day, so even if we felt comfortable having you visit, she'd be asleep."

"I understand," he said, not surprised somehow. "Would you keep in touch with me if her condition improves—or worsens? If it would help, I'll be the conduit to everyone else, to save you the time and trouble of returning a bunch of calls. I'd rather you spent your time helping Rainie than calling us back."

"Thanks, Mr. Schuster. We appreciate your understanding. I'll be in touch."

Schuster put the phone back in its cradle. He couldn't figure it out. There was something about House being in on this that he kept coming back to. I'd give anything to know what's going on in that guy's head, he thought. After everything he's been through—and I understand he wasn't perceived as the nicest guy before or the easiest to get to know—why would he choose to put himself in a situation where he was bound to run head on into his own troubled past?

*** * * ***

**H**ouse sat quietly by Rainie's side, listening to her breathe. The ICU staff had briefed the long-term care team on her condition, physio was done for the day—it had gone even better than that morning—and one by one, his team had been brought into the room to meet their patient. She'd handled it relatively well, mostly because House stayed by her side the whole time, slowly introducing her to the people who would strive to return her life to her. A couple of times someone moved a little too fast or spoke a little too loud, and she flinched, but for the most part it went smoothly.

She didn't say anything the entire time, just weakly gripped House's hand and watched the comings and goings with big eyes. In fact, the only words she'd spoken since being admitted to PPTH were the four words she'd said when she'd asked House to do her therapeutic massage: "No… I… want… _you_."

Now she lay silently on her right side, still feebly holding onto his right hand. This was the longest she'd been awake since being admitted. A good sign, thought House, as he watched the last of the team exit the room.

She seemed be dozing off, so he began to withdraw his hand from hers, but she started and grabbed it a little more tightly. Her eyes opened and they seemed be searching his face for something.

He looked at her quizzically. "What is it, Rainie?"

She struggled to form the word. "When?" she whispered finally.

He didn't understand. "When what?" he asked.

Taking a deep breath, she tried again.

"When… back?" Whatever it was that made her determined to speak was clearly troubling Rainie a great deal.

"I'm sorry. I don't understand." Carefully, he took his left arm and, lifting her up slightly, gently laid it around her shoulders.

She took another deep breath. Frowning, she tried again. He could feel her body tensing up, possibly in anticipation of his answer.

"When… do… I… go… back?"

House felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. Oh, of course, he thought, remembering his own uncertainties at the beginning. She thinks this is a brief respite, that once we're done with her here, she'll be sent back to… Suddenly, flashes of his own imprisonment rushed into his head. He could see the iron door, hear the clank as it slammed shut, smell his own filth as he lay shivering, feel the freezing cement of the cold floor beneath him. Involuntarily, he hunched his shoulders in anticipation of a blow.

With difficulty, he pulled himself back to the present. The flashbacks generally came unbidden, and were often outside his control. This time, though, he remained aware of his surroundings, and finally was able to get a grip on himself. Rainie was staring at him, clearly terrified.

"It's okay," he said, finally. "It's okay." It wasn't, but for her, he'd pretend that it was.

He looked into her frightened eyes. "It's over. You don't ever have to go back." She began to tremble. Clumsily, he slid his arm around her, and pulled her a little closer to him. "It's really all over, Rainie. Your conviction was overturned on Friday. They can't hurt you anymore. You're free."

She searched his face again. He nodded. Then the shaking took over her entire body, as she trembled with emotion, convulsive cries began escaping her, overtaking her. He pulled her closer still, and lifted her blanket higher to try to keep her warm.

"Selma," he called out to the nurse in the corner. "Quick! Go get Dr. Jacey Liu—now!" Selma, who was half-standing, watching, raced out the door.

*** * * ***

**I** can't do this, he thought. It's too painful. All he could think of as he held the trembling woman was the moment when he'd sat, chained to a chair, as Wilson had similarly held him, telling him, as he had just told Rainie, that it was over, that he was safe. His own emotions began to overcome him. He fought back the urge to cry.

Still holding onto Rainie, he climbed onto her bed, propping his right leg in the chair. He leaned back, and held her tight with both of his arms. Once he felt he had her securely, memories engulfed him.

When Jacey arrived three minutes later, she found House reclining on the edge of Rainie's hospital bed, his back against the raised part, his right leg stretched out into the armchair, his left lying parallel with Rainie's body, his head bowed low over her head. He held her tight in his arms, holding most of her weight with his left arm, her blanket partially covering them both. She couldn't see Rainie's face, which was buried in House's chest, but she could hear the wracking sobs. Two sets of them, one high and soft, and the other low and deep.

She waited a moment before speaking. "Dr. House?"

He glanced up, devastated. In her years of clinical practice, she'd never seen eyes like that; his extreme emotional pain was totally exposed. He took several slow breaths and attempted to stop crying, with only partial success. Freeing his right arm, he beckoned her over.

"I told her she didn't have to go back," he said simply, in a low voice through his tears. "It's the first time she's realized it was over."

Jacey thought quickly. It probably would be better for Rainie if House stayed put for a while. If he could handle it.

"You're doing fine," she said, reassuringly. "Keep holding onto her—you're her only lifeline right now, her only connection with hope. I'm going to get a sedative. If it weren't for her other injuries, I'd probably let her cry it out, but I don't think it's good for her like this. She needs to calm down."

He nodded slightly, adjusting his hold on his patient.

When she came back a couple minutes later, Jacey found the two damaged victims huddled together, clinging onto one other, still sobbing. Once the sedative injection was administered into her IV, Rainie relaxed almost immediately. As her eyelids closed, she looked up at House and said, longingly, "Evie…" She was soon asleep.

It was going to be a little more difficult for House.

Assessing the situation, Jacey sent Selma to find Drs. Wilson and Ajunta as she helped House, now nearly doubled over in anguish, off the bed and back to the chair.

He sat with his head in hands, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably, the front of his shirt damp from the combination of Rainie's tears and his own.

"I… I can't do this," he said, almost to himself. "I really can't." He looked up at Jacey, his eyes still reflecting intense suffering. "It hurts too much. I don't know if I can keep going on like this."

"I understand, Dr. House—Greg," she said, putting her arms around his shoulders, as he had done for Rainie. "This has got to be incredibly difficult for you."

She thought a minute about how to proceed. It was wrenching to watch what he and Rainie were experiencing, and she was torn between what would make House feel better short-term and what would be better for him, and for Rainie, in the long run. She finally decided she had to focus on the long run.

"Let's get you settled first, and then let's talk about things," she proposed as Wilson came running into the room, out of breath. A few paces behind him was Ajunta. Wilson quickly surveyed the conditions and then blocked Ajunta's view. "Let me deal with it," he whispered quietly to Ajunta, who turned and left the room. House wouldn't want anyone else to see him like this.

On one level, Wilson was relieved—with Dr. Liu here, he was no longer alone trying to help House handle something he knew it wasn't humanly possible to handle. On another, he wasn't sure how much more House could take before he crumbled completely. His biggest fear was that House would once again retreat into the semi-catatonic numbness of last year.

He joined Jacey Liu at House's side in the center of the room. The tall man was still sobbing uncontrollably, his face buried on his lap, his hands clasped around his head as he shook.

"House? House, it's me, Wilson. It's okay. We're here to help you."

"No one can help me," came the muffled reply.

Jacey kneeled in front of him, gently lifting his head from his lap. She looked at his tragic face sympathetically. "Of course we can," she said, reassuringly, although she felt far from confident.

He looked at her with the saddest eyes she'd ever seen.

"I don't know what I was thinking," he said. "How can I help her when I can't even help myself?"

Jacey paused before answering. "That's what we're here for," she said gently. She stroked his ill-treated face, wiping away some tears. "I told you we'd support you, and we will. You've spent far too much time dealing with this by yourself. You don't have to go through it alone anymore."

As if to confirm she'd said the right thing, House shuddered, bending his head once more, and slowly nodding, more tears rushing to his eyes, his shoulders quivering. Wilson reached over and began to rub slow circles on House's back.

"Now, let's get you to your office," she said. "Selma, could you get us a wheelchair, please? And could you ask one of the other nurses to stay with Ms. Adler for a little while?"

A few minutes later, shielded from view by Wilson, Selma and Jacey, House was wheeled down the hall. They blocked the elevator to ensure his privacy, and got him back to his office on the fifth floor. Once inside, they helped him to the couch, and brought him a cup of hot tea. His cries had slowed, but now his eyes were hollow and haunted. With shaking hands, he sipped the tea and then they helped him stretch out on the couch, covering him with a warm blanket.

"Try to rest," said Jacey, soothingly. "Selma's going to stay with you awhile, and then we'll get you home." As they left the room, House's eyes began to close.

*** * * * **

**D**r. Liu and Dr. Wilson stepped out into the hallway outside House's office. "Let's talk in my office," said Jacey. They walked silently together until they were inside her office, several doors down from House's.

Once inside, Wilson exhaled a deep breath and shook his head. "I knew this was going to be hard on him," he started. He didn't know what else to say.

"Of course it is," said Jacey, seating herself behind her desk. Wilson sat down across from her. "He's been through the worst thing a human can survive, and he's been holding in a lot of these feelings. Dealing with Rainie is bound to bring them to the surface."

"At the beginning," said Wilson, "after he came out of the catatonia, he was numb, as if he were removed from it all."

"Very common," agreed Jacey. "Go on."

Wilson smiled. Now she was being _his_ therapist. Well, he could probably use one, too.

"Over the last few days, his emotions have been getting stronger and more intense, overwhelming him at times. And he was never the most forthcoming of people."

"I've been thinking a lot about this since being brought on board," said Jacey. "What he's going through undoubtedly hurts him emotionally nearly as much as the torture did physically. We could put an emotional bandage on him, and he'd be able to function adequately."

Wilson glanced at her. Is that what she was suggesting?

As if anticipating his unspoken question, she continued. "But ultimately, that wouldn't do him any good. Sooner or later, these feelings have to come out, and they'll be worse the longer we wait. What we need to do is find the safest way for him to let them out, while still allowing him to do his job. It's a balancing act, and occasionally, like today, he's going to fall off that high wire. We're going to have to expect it, prepare for it and deal with it."

"How on earth do we do that?" Wilson couldn't see any way for House to be functional if he was going to be murderously angry one minute and sobbing hysterically the next.

"The way I see it, we have to be his safety net. We have to be one step behind him, catch him when he falls, and get him back up there. Mostly, we have to let him know it's okay, that the feelings won't kill him any more than the abuse did. And we have to protect him, if possible, so others don't judge him badly because of it."

Wilson nodded pensively.

"We'll also have to reinforce that moments like these, as raw as they are for him, are actually good for Rainie. Because of his own history, he will understand her better than anyone else ever could. Unlike him, she needn't be alone in her experiences. There's no one but him who could have helped her as he did today.

"He strikes me as the kind of doctor who will do anything for his patient—as he was willing to do anything to protect his friends and family, even at the cost of…" she drifted off, letting Wilson complete the thought in his own mind.

She paused.

"What I find most interesting is the choice he made."

"What do you mean?" asked Wilson.

"I mean, he could easily have allowed PPTH to assign someone else to her care. He could have remained in a cocoon of security, where he didn't go outside his comfort zone. But something inside him knew he had to do this, not only for her, but also for himself. He needs to experience these emotions, as painful as they are, as part of his own recovery. All we can do is make sure he knows he doesn't need to go through it alone."

They left it at that.

_Page 7 of 7_


	11. Chapter 11: A Cup of Tea

**Chapter 11**

A Cup of Hot Tea

**A**round six o'clock, Jacey Liu called Wilson and asked her to meet him in House's office.

Alarmed, he asked, "Is anything wrong?"

"No, no. Not at all. According to Selma, he's been sleeping for the last couple of hours. But I think it's time to wake him up and get him home. And I think it would be good for him to have us there when he wakes up."

They met outside the door of 527 five minutes later. Wilson was carrying a cup of hot tea with honey.

Quietly, they slipped into the room, finding House still stretched out on the sofa. He was snoring lightly, his face still distorted with anxiety. Pulling up a couple of chairs next to him, they dismissed Selma and sent her back to Rainie's room.

"Dr. House?" said Jacey softly. "It's time to wake up."

House murmured in his sleep. She reached out and began gently stroking his arm.

"Come on, sleeping beauty," said Wilson, reaching around to rub the man's back.

Slowly, House opened his right eye. It glared at them.

"That's good," said Jacey. "Now the other one."

The left eye opened. It didn't look any more pleased than the right one had.

"Let's get you sitting up. Would you like some more tea?"

House nodded. His hair, never well groomed under the best of circumstances, was sticking up at odd angles. He brushed his bent fingers through it as he pulled himself into a sitting position.

Wilson handed him the cup of tea. House's hands were shaking more than usual; the tea was in danger of spilling. Jacey put her small hands around his big ones to help him steady it as he brought the cup to his mouth and took a sip.

"Jesus, Wilson! That's _hot_!" he yelped, rubbing his burnt tongue along the back of his front teeth.

"Well, we'll just let it cool off a minute, and then we'll try again," said Jacey, setting the cup on the floor next to her.

House looked worn out, which he undoubtedly was, and still shaken from the afternoon's events.

"Dr. House, is it okay if I talk to you a little bit about what happened?"

Looking wary, he nodded uncertainly.

"I want you to know that I've been expecting exactly what happened today."

He didn't look convinced.

"Like you, I'm a doctor. And like you, I'm very good at what I do. You brought me in on this case because you knew that. Isn't that right?"

House nodded, rolling his eyes slightly at the obviousness.

"What I do is help people who have survived traumatic experiences. I've worked with bombing victims, people who have been trapped in earthquakes and soldiers returning from Iraq, among others. Their circumstances are all different, but they have many things in common."

"Makes sense," mumbled House, his doctor's mind working on the problem.

"Yes, of course it does. Just as the human body responds the same ways to infections or injuries, the human mind responds the same ways to extreme trauma. With me so far?"

He nodded again.

"Without looking at your history, I could describe at least the general outline of what you've been going through. When the abuse first ended, you were in shock. Your body was so battered, it needed all of your strength just to survive, so the mind just went along for the ride. As your body began to heal, your mind suddenly realized how damaged it had been by your experiences.

"Once the immediate danger subsided, your mind needed to begin to heal. Just as we sometimes put the body into an induced coma to wait out the trauma to the body, the mind sometimes shuts itself down to wait out its own immediate trauma. I understand you were in a semi-catatonic state for a while—that was your mind's way of giving itself some time.

"Throughout all of this, you've probably had some dreadful nightmares—that's your subconscious trying to work on healing itself when your conscious mind just hasn't been able to deal with it. And I'm sure you still have moments of being jumpy and even frightened by loud noises or sudden movements. Again, that's your mind responding to its injury—it's trying to protect itself. These tend to be ongoing concerns, but perhaps not as often as before. Am I right?"

"Yes."

"After you came back mentally, I'm sure you were emotionally numb for a long time."

"Yes," said House again, thinking back on the weeks and weeks he spent on autopilot.

"And now it's becoming painful while you're awake. Sometimes very painful. Think about it like this. What does the body do when there's a wound—a cut or abrasion, or even a break?"

House knew this one. He wasn't a _bored_-certified diagnostician for nothing.

"You know the answer," he said. "I don't have to tell you."

"No, of course not. The blood rushes to the area; if the skin has been broken, it forms a protective scab, which keeps out infection and allows the area to heal. When the wound first happens, we don't always feel it immediately, do we?"

House certainly knew about wounds. "No."

"But as it begins to heal, it can sometimes be a lot more painful than the initial injury, can't it?"

Again, House had a wealth of expertise in this area. He agreed.

"Well, our minds do something very similar. When your mind was wounded, it was in shock from the injury at first. Your catatonic state was like the blood rushing to the area, and the numbness you felt afterward was the protective scab."

House saw where this was going. Although he wasn't sure he liked it, he had to admit this was the most down-to-earth approach to psychiatry he'd ever run across. He was beginning to think he hadn't made a mistake in hiring Jacey Liu.

"I see what you're getting at," he said. "If I'm going to heal, I'm going to have to deal with the pain of the healing process, yes?"

"I'm afraid so," she answered. "I'd love to spare you that pain, believe me, but sooner or later you'll have to go through it if you're ever going to get better."

Get better? If there's this much pain involved, I don't know if I want to get better, he thought. And there's been so much damage, I'm not sure it's even possible. It was kind of like Brussels sprouts. He resisted the idea that something he disliked so much could be good for him.

Jacey continued, picking up on his fear.

"You have chosen to help Rainie through her own healing. Because you've been there, you know what to expect, and you hope that because of your own history, you'll be able to help her. That's why you took on her case, isn't it?"

Still resisting where this was going, he nodded reluctantly.

"Physically, you have no problem admitting that you are still recovering and need outside medical treatment to help your body heal. What I want you to think about is doing the same thing for your mind. As it's recovering, I want you to consider me your outside medical treatment, so I can help do for your mind what the orthopedists, neurologists and plastic surgeons are doing for your body. Fair enough?"

He'd never been able to argue with logic.

"Yeah. Okay."

"Just as you need additional surgeries—which may cause more pain in the short run, in order to make you better in the long run—you also need to deal with this emotional pain so that you can function better in the long run. The sooner you deal with it, the easier it's going to be on you. This kind of emotional pain just gets worse the longer you wait. And if you're going to really help Rainie, you must do it now, so that when she gets to this point, you're there to guide her."

Damn, she was good, he thought.

"Okay, you win," he conceded. "How do we do it?"

"Unfortunately, it's not as easy to predict as a surgery and its recovery time. We're going to have to play this a little by ear. On some subconscious level, you knew you were ready for this, or you never would have taken on Rainie's case."

House had to agree. He felt as if he were getting the first clues to the Big Mystery, the mystery of how someone survives and of why he'd felt compelled to take this case.

"For the time being, Rainie isn't going to need my services a whole lot. She's still mostly in shock, punctuated by moments like today, plus the jumpiness, and I'm sure she'll have nightmares. We'll deal with those things as they come up. For right now, I want to focus on you, because there are going to be times like today, when working with Rainie is going to push your mind where you'd just as soon it didn't go.

"Here's what I want you to do. Page me, any time, day or night, when the emotions get too much for you. Try not to be afraid of them, and for god's sake, don't be embarrassed about it. You're just healing. I'll help you through it. Sometimes, I may give you some medication that can help; other times, we'll just go through it together.

"I promise I'll never leave you alone with the pain, as long as you keep me in the loop. And I promise that it will get better with time.

"Does that work for you?"

House thought for a moment, then reached out his squashed spider of a hand and gently shook hers. "Deal," he said.

She handed him his cup of tea. It was cold.

Wilson, who has sat silently listening throughout, was stunned. Jacey Liu had just done in half an hour what no one in House's entire life had been able to do.

*** * * * **

**I**t was nearing eight o'clock by the time they got back to the duplex, and House was sound sleep in the passenger seat.

Wilson and Jacey had taken House out of the hospital in the wheelchair, his crutches propped up across his lap. They helped him into the car, and then Jacey asked if she could follow along to make sure he was okay once he got home. To Wilson's surprise, House agreed.

Now the two of them bundled him into the house, where Linda was dealing with dinner. When Wilson had called ahead to let her know they'd be late and bringing a guest, she ran out and picked up Chinese food. Not only was it something House really enjoyed, but it was also loaded with calories.

Still groggy from sleep and emotional exhaustion, House lay quietly on the leather sofa until dinner was ready to serve. He really wasn't hungry, but he knew Wilson would insist that he eat. He struggled into an upright position when Linda entered carrying a large tray, which she set down on the coffee table. Wilson and Jacey pulled their chairs close.

"Surprise," said Linda, bringing out the little white boxes. "Your favorite." Out of respect for the fact that House could no longer manage chopsticks, the only utensils on the tray were forks.

"Which is the most fattening?" asked House irritably, poking through some of the boxes. "Maybe if I go for that one right away, Mother Wilson will leave me alone for the rest of the night."

"Don't know, Dr. House. They're all pretty bad for you."

"Fine. I'll pick one at random." And with that he clumsily opened up the remaining boxes, shut his eyes and then stabbed at one with his fork. It turned out to be kung pao chicken, which, incidentally, was one of his favorites. After dumping some into a bowl with a bunch of rice and eating a couple of bites, he grabbed a won ton, and crunched it in half.

"There. Happy now?" he said in mock anger. He was tired and he'd had about enough for one day.

"Very," said Wilson, who was contentedly eating a vegetarian dumpling.

Linda deferred to Jacey, who picked out General Tso's chicken, and then chose for herself Mongolian beef.

When they were done—or in House's case eaten a quarter of a serving—Linda dumped the remains back on the tray and returned to the kitchen to put the leftovers away.

Wilson and Jacey chatted idly while House lay his head back on the couch, eyelids getting heavy.

After a few minutes, Linda returned with dessert: ice cream sundaes. House perked up at this, and, groaning, sat up again.

As they finished up, Jacey took a look at House. He was clearly done in, but she wanted to check in before she left.

"Feeling a little better, Greg?"

"Oh, yes indeedy," he said, sarcastically. "I think I'll have a wrenching emotional breakdown every day. It's so good for my constitution."

Wilson shrugged his shoulders at Jacey.

"Just can't take him anyplace," he said.

"Well, if you're feeling well enough to get snotty, I guess I can take my leave for the night."

"It's about time," said House. "I thought you'd never leave."

Jacey paused, smiled and looked him right in the eye. "But I'm not going to leave, Dr. House, not really. I'll never leave you. I'll always be here for you when you need me. Go ahead. Say something rude. Doesn't matter. I'll still be here."

House opened his mouth to retort, and then changed his mind. He sighed. She was going to take all the fun out of being nasty.

"Thanks," he said, unexpectedly. And he meant it.

*** * * * **

**H**ouse sank back onto the couch and closed his eyes.

"Massage?" asked Linda.

"Massage," replied House. "Massage, Vicodin, morphine—whatever you've got."

"Okay, but first let's get you into the bedroom." She and Wilson helped him up off the couch and down the hall, where they stripped off his clothes, gave him a Vicodin and eased him onto the bed, face up.

"Were you serious about the morphine?" asked Wilson. With all the emotional turmoil of the day, he hadn't given much thought to House's physical condition.

House thought a minute, then shrugged. "Let's see how the Vicodin does. Ask me again in half an hour."

"Let's start with your legs and feet," said Linda. With Wilson and Linda sitting on either side of him, they began to gently rub his feet and ankles, eventually working their way up. Because Linda was on his right side, she had to bypass the infarction site, which she did, gingerly, massaging the aching muscles and lessening the tender knots without triggering a pain spasm.

House lay passively on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He hadn't wasted much time resenting what had happened to him in the previous six years. There was no point; it wouldn't change the day-to-day aspects of his life.

But the events of the past few days were forcing him to examine just how much his life had changed. Odd how when his leg had been injured, he'd had plenty of anger against Stacy for overriding his wishes. Only now, when he met another body as catastrophically damaged as his own, caused by a clear-cut evil force, was he able to work up a case of righteous anger, as justifiable as it would be.

He was beginning to think of his life as Before Thompson—B.T.—and After Thompson—A.T. B.T., he groused about the pain and his diminished capacity on a fairly regular basis. Now, A.T., he rarely said a word about how much it hurt or how difficult his life had become, unless prompted by Wilson. He had railed against pity for the leg, getting nasty and sarcastic if anyone dared feel sorry for him, unless he specifically complained about it himself. Now, he knew the pity was there no matter what he did or how he behaved, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Why was that, he wondered, puzzling over his own behavior. He already knew the answer: It was a matter of control. Not over the pity, but over the injuries themselves. The results of the leg injury had been taken out of his control—except when he took control and made cripple jokes—and he had made the choice to let Thompson continue.

His decision, his choice. He could have said no, and allowed Thompson to kill Wilson and the others. He could have killed himself to end it. But his choice was to live, to endure. There was an old House family saying: You're not allowed to complain about anything you've done to yourself. And in a sense, he'd done this to himself by allowing it to continue.

Day by day, House was fighting to regain as much of what he'd lost as possible. Although his mind knew that he would never regain what he'd had pre-Thompson, he'd never allowed himself to grieve for the loss.

Where before, he'd been in pain from the injury to his leg and its after-effects, now there wasn't an inch of him that didn't hurt at least that much… and wouldn't continue to hurt for the rest of his life.

His entire life had been sideswiped because of Thompson and his insanity. He faced a shortened lifespan, constant agonizing pain, diminished capacity and years of surgeries that would only partially repair the damage.

And then there was Rainie, facing the same bleak future, because of him.

Wilson and Linda had worked their up to his chest and forearms.

"Well, what do you think?" asked Wilson. "Is the Vicodin helping?"

"Nothing ever helps," said House simply. "But can I live with it? Yes."

*** * * * **

**A**mazingly, there were no nightmares Tuesday night. Wilson had been positive it was going to be a bad night, after all the trauma of the day, but House slept soundly. Even more amazingly, Wednesday was quiet. No drama, no setbacks, no confrontations, no nonsense. On the whole, a pretty good day.

Thursday, on the other hand, was something entirely different.


	12. Chapter 12: The Mother of All Nightmares

**WARNING: This chapter is VERY intense!**

**Chapter 12**

The Mother of All Nightmares

**I**t started with the mother of all nightmares.

_He was trying to sleep, but it hurt too much. As he lay shivering, he heard the door screech open behind him. No, he thought. Not today. But they didn't play by his rules. Nothing played by his rules._

"_Wake up, you piece of shit!" said Boot Boy, kicking him in the side as his buddies laughed. He tried to stand up, but the pain was too bad._

_After beating on him briefly—nothing out of the ordinary—they dragged him out of his cell and took him down to the courtyard. After days in a dark cell, his eyes weren't used to the light. He squinted into the bright sun. _

_With a sense of horror creeping over him, he saw the table from the factory. He began to struggle, desperate to get away. He broke free for a moment, but of course he couldn't get very far. About four of them overpowered him, hauling him to the table. _

_As they slipped his arms into the cuffs chained to the table, they forced his head around so he had to look back toward the prison. His breath stopped, and his heart started pounding. He was going to be sick. They had all of them. His parents, Cuddy, Foreman, Chase and Wilson. They were standing up on a platform, handcuffed to each other._

"_Save us!," cried Cuddy. "Don't let them hurt us, House. Save us!"_

_He swallowed hard and began to weep._

_He felt them rip off his shirt and take off his pants. With sickening certainty, he knew what was going to happen next._

_There was a voice behind him. It was the sticky, sweet voice of Robert Thompson, the man who had brought all this upon him._

"_You've been a bad boy, Greggie," said Thompson, "and we can't have that. You'll have to be punished."_

_Craning his head around to try to see what they had in store for him, he saw the lash of the whip just as it curled past his face. He could barely breathe. He felt the cool air hit the lash marks, causing exquisite pain._

_Of course, they raped him—they all raped him, including Thompson. Out there in the open, with Wilson and the others watching, pleading with him to save them. It was his fault they were here. All were crying now, not so much for what they were witnessing but because of their own terror of what would happen to them._

_When the guards and Thompson were done with him, they unchained him and forced him to stand facing the platform. And then—no! It's not possible—they efficiently and unemotionally killed his mother by shooting her in the back of the head. Then his father, then Foreman, Chase, Cuddy and finally Wilson. It was over._

**W**ilson was at a baseball game and the Mets had just won the World Series. Everyone was cheering and yelling in the stands. What a nice dream, he thought as he began to wake up. Somehow, though, he could still hear the yelling. Suddenly, he woke up, realizing that what he was hearing was House, next door, making sounds Wilson had never heard before. What on earth?! Good God, he thought, as he grabbed his keys and glanced at his watch. It was 3:17 in the morning.

He could hear the screaming the whole time he was making his way next door. It wasn't the usual loud scream or two, followed by sobbing. This was a nearly constant scream, punctuating only by the occasional intake of breath. How could he even make a noise like that, with his vocal cords so damaged? Someone's going to call the police.

When he got to House's bedroom, it was completely dark. Because House had so much trouble sleeping, they'd installed blackout curtains, hoping that absolute dark would help him rest. Wilson flipped the light switch to find that the room was a shambles. The lamp had been knocked over, the dresser was askew and the bedclothes were scattered around the room. He didn't see House, but he could hear him. The screaming was so loud, Wilson had to cover his ears.

"House! House! It's me, Wilson! Wake up! It's okay! You're safe!"

The screaming continued.

"House!! Where are you?!"

From the sound, Wilson knew House had to be here in the room somewhere. But he wasn't crammed into his usual corner, and the room wasn't that big. Closet? No. Where…? Yes, he had wedged himself under the bed. Lying flat on the floor, with his right hand still covering his left ear, Wilson groped toward House with his left arm.

"House! House!! You've got to wake up! House!"

As Wilson's hand touched House's arm, the sound stopped for a second, and then started up again.

"No, House! It's Wilson! It's me! Come on, big guy! _Wake up_!" He grabbed House's arm, and started trying to pull him out from under the bed. House struggled against him, screaming all the while.

Finally, using both arms, Wilson was able to ease House out from under the bed. "House! It's okay! It's okay! WAKE UP! Whatever it is, it isn't real! You're having a nightmare. Please wake up!"

He grabbed some of the bedclothes and wrapped them around his shivering friend. For a fraction of a second, in his desperation, he was tempted to muffle the screams by stuffing part of the quilt in House's mouth.

He put his arms around House's upper body, took a deep breath and started talking soothingly into House's ear. What seemed like an eternity later, the screaming began to quiet down. Or had it? Wilson groaned. It was a siren. Someone had called the police.

"House, you've got to stop. Please. It's okay. I'm here." Slowly, House's yells died down and turned into deep, heaving sobs.

"Police!" Wilson had left the front door open in his urgency to get to House. From the sound of them, they were in the living room.

Torn between leaving the room and staying with House, Wilson compromised.

"Coming!" he yelled. Helping House to his feet, Wilson half-carried him to the living room, where he gently set him down on the couch.

"Sorry, officers," he said. "My friend here had a nightmare." House was shivering and sobbing, still lost in his own mind.

"That must have been a helluva nightmare, buddy," said one of the cops, whose name badge said Aiello on it. "Someone three doors down called us."

"Look, I live next door, and if you can give me a minute to get him settled, I'll explain everything to you."

"We don't need explanations," said the other cop, whose name badge said Jimson. "We know what we need to know. This guy woke up half the neighborhood, and he's going to have to be booked for disturbing the peace."

"Is that guy right in the head?" added Aiello, helpfully. "Maybe he oughtta be locked up."

At that, Wilson lost it.

"That's the problem, you idiots! He _was_ locked up! Don't you guys ever watch the news? This is Gregory House, the doctor who was tortured in prison." He hated saying it aloud, but it was the only way he could think of to get through.

Aiello, who seemed to be the brighter of the two, appeared to recognize the story. Jimson wasn't convinced.

Wilson offered to pay whatever the fine was for disturbing the peace.

Jimson took charge. "That's okay by me, buddy, but it don't solve the problem of him waking up half the neighborhood. We gotta take him in."

"No, really, Officer… uh, Jimson, you don't. Listen to me. I'm a doctor—I've got ID over at my place next door. This is a very sick man."

Aiello looked as if for the first time at House, who continued to shake on the couch. He did not look well. Not only was he shuddering and crying, but… the cop finally began to notice the scars on his face and the mangled hands.

Aiello spoke first. "Holy shit. Look at `im."

Jimson, who seemed determined to play by the book, reluctantly looked over at House. His jaw grew slack and he just stared.

"Fuck, man! That guy's a fuckin' mess."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," said Wilson, quietly, trying desperately to remain calm. Thank goodness House was still out of it. He hesitated to think how he'd react. First off, uniforms and House were not a good combination. And second, being put on display was not his favorite activity.

"Just tell me what the fine is and let me pay it, okay?" He wanted to get these guys out of here before House snapped out of it.

"Okay, buddy. Sorry about your friend." The two continued to stare. Wilson guided them out the front door and over to his place, where he paid the fine and watched them depart.

As soon as their car was out of sight, he ran back over to House's place.

House was curled up in the fetal position on the sofa, nearly covered by the quilt. Only the top of his head and his nose were peeking out. Wilson got him sitting up, and put one comforting arm around House's shoulders, which were still heaving with sobs.

"Hey, House. It's all right now. They're gone. It's safe now, okay?" He put his other hand on House's face, tilting it up so he was looking into House's eyes. Slowly, very slowly, House focused on him. Exhaling one final desperate sob, he came back.

"Wilson? Wilson!"

House looked at him frantically. He reached out and grabbed Wilson's arm.

"What is it, House? What on earth happened?"

House searched his face anxiously. Finally, he closed his eyes for a moment, a few tears sliding out from under his eyelids.

Then, very quietly, with his head down, he said, "You're not dead."

Wilson took a deep breath and thought for a moment before replying.

"No," he said, "not last time I checked. What the hell did you dream?"

House's eyes unfocused again. Shaking his head, he said, "Doesn't matter. It was just a nightmare."

"Do you want me to call Jacey Liu?" asked Wilson. In all the time since House's release, he'd never seen anything as bad as this.

"No, I do not want you to call Jacey Liu," mimicked House, getting testy. "It was a nightmare. That's all it was. It wasn't real."

"House, listen to me. I know it wasn't real. But you were screaming for nearly 15 minutes. You were so loud one of our neighbors called the cops, and I was just barely able to keep them from taking you in for disturbing the peace. This wasn't just any old nightmare."

House stared at Wilson. Had it really been that bad? Wilson nodded. Even my own subconscious betrays me, thought House.

"Well, I'm okay now," was all he could think of to say.

"Wanna try going back to sleep?" asked Wilson.

Almost before he finished the phrase, House blurted out "No!," then took a deep breath, and mumbled something about watching television. The last thing he wanted to do was go back into that place in his mind.

The day went down hill from there.


	13. Chapter 13: We Got a Situation

**Chapter 13**

"We Got a Situation…"

**A**round 6:30, House got paged. When he called back, he got a woman's voice he didn't recognize.

"Dr. House? This is Jessie Hannibal on the third floor. We got a situation going on. You need to get down here right away."

"What is it?" asked House quietly, realizing how very sore his throat was and how hard it was to talk. He rubbed his right hand across the scar on the front of his neck. "Is Rainie all right?"

"Well… you gotta get down here. We already called security."

"Security? What the hell is happening?"

"It's too complicated to explain over the phone. Just get here."

When House hung the phone, he found Wilson looking at him expectantly.

"Help me get dressed and down to the hospital right away. Something's going on. I couldn't find out what."

Fourteen minutes later, they pulled into the back lot by the emergency room, and hustled into the building, House hobbling along on his crutches as fast as he could go.

As they got out of the elevator, House and Wilson saw people milling about outside Room 304—orderlies, nurses, security personnel, maybe 12 or 13 in all.

"What's happening here?"

Some of the crowd turned to look at him, but no one said anything.

"Who's in charge here? Or rather, who _was_ till I got here?"

"I guess I am," came a voice attached to tall, oddly proportioned female in scrubs.

"You're Jessie," he said, not really as a question. "What's happened? Don't give me the excuses; just give me the situation."

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

House was getting angry. "Now! Tell me now!" He looked through the glass door into room 304. Rainie's bed was there, but Rainie wasn't in it. "Where is she?"

"That's just it, Dr. House. We don't know."

"What do you mean _you don't know_?!"

He looked around, as if expecting one of the people present to produce her from under their scrubs.

"Where's Cuddy?" asked Wilson. "Did anyone page her?"

"Out of town—conference," said one of the scrub-clad bodies.

"Get me the head of security. NOW! If you have to yank him out of bed while he's fucking his wife, get him here!" said House. This was as bad as it could possibly be.

A voice down the hall suddenly called out. "We found her!"

All heads turned in that direction. Wilson started running toward the voice. "Where?!"

"Down on the second floor. Room 207," came the voice. House turned back toward the elevator and headed into it. Some of the others followed him. Wilson kept running toward the voice, which was at the head of the stairs.

Just as he arrived on the second floor, House saw Bernie Campanella, the head of security, getting off the other elevator and running toward room 207 while Wilson was running from the other end of the hall headed the same way.

"Where the fuck were your people?!" yelled House. "I thought there were supposed to be three guards on that floor at all times!"

Bernie shook his head in irritation. "I don't know, but I'm sure as hell going to find out," he said.

Because of the crutches, House was the last one to reach room 207; as he got to the door, he paused to catch his breath. Let her be okay, he thought desperately. Just let her be okay.

When he finally got into the room, he found Rainie lying curled up on a bed, crying and shivering. There were no monitors in this room, and her IV was missing. Wilson was leaning over, checking her pulse and other vitals. He looked worried. A couple of residents were also hovering.

"Well?" said House as he approached the bed.

Wilson seemed to draw a deep breath. "She seems to be in shock," he said hesitantly.

House drew nearer. Rainie was lying, pale, in her hospital gown, on top of the bed, whimpering. "Cover her up!" he commanded just as Jessie came in the door carrying a couple of blankets and did just that, gently adjust a pillow under her head.

"Her pulse is weak but stable, and her eyes are reactive," said Wilson.

"I want whoever is on duty in ER up here right away," said House. "I want her checked over thoroughly." A resident nodded and ran out the door.

"Next, I want to know who saw her last. If you don't know, find out. I want to know where the three guards were… and are, for that matter… and the nurse who was supposed to be in her room. And last, I want to know how a patient in critical condition under guard came to be out of her room and on a different floor. I want those answers in the next half hour." He looked pointedly at Bernie, who also nodded and left.

"Wherever the hell Cuddy is, someone page her, call her cell, call her hotel, call the conference and get her here. I don't care where she is or what the conference is. Get her here." A nurse ran out of the room.

"Now, I want you all to get the hell out. Send in the ER docs, but everyone else out. Except Wilson."

Through it all, Rainie continued to breathe shallowly and whimper. Her eyes were shut, but House could see her eyes moving beneath her lids.

Wilson, fearful that House was going to topple over, grabbed a chair for him and put it next to the bed.

House sat down with a grunt.

He dropped his crutches to the floor and took a moment to compose himself.

"Rainie?" he whispered. "Rainie, can you hear me?" He reached out a hand and gently laid it on the blanket over her forearm.

Her eyes opened slowly, as if afraid of what she'd see. When she saw House, she drew in a quick breath and then let it out slowly, her body relaxing just a little.

"It's okay. I'm here now," he said. "I'm here. I won't let anyone hurt you."

Wilson watched, fascinated, as his friend, the ever-grumpy Dr. House, the man considered to have no social skills, tenderly and patiently soothed the troubled woman. How did he learn how to do that, he wondered, not realizing House was basing at least some of his bedside manner on his own example.

Her soft cries faded away, and her breathing became more regular. House ever so slowly reached up and stroked her hair, which was matted with perspiration.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

She swallowed. "Okay," she said.

"Good. Now, can you tell me what happened?"

"T-t Tee," she seemed to be saying. Or maybe she was just shivering.

House and Wilson exchanged baffled glances.

Just then, the door opened and two ER doctors came in, hurrying over to where Rainie lay. Wilson reached out an arm to slow them down. "Careful," he said. "Don't frighten her." They slowed their pace and approached her cautiously.

House scooted his chair back to give them room, saying, "It's all right, Rainie. They just need to take a look at you."

She nodded.

House's growing sense of dread was confirmed when the ER docs found new bruises on Rainie's right hip and shoulder. He felt a knot forming in his chest.

Once the examination was done and the room was quiet again, House moved his chair closer and focused his attention again on Rainie.

"What was it you were saying before?" he asked her. "About what happened. Do you know how you got to this room?"

She nodded her head. It sounded as if she said "T-t Tee" again.

House and Wilson looked at each and shook their heads.

"Can you explain?" House asked.

Before she had a chance to answer, the door opened and Bernie Campanella stepped in.

"Dr. House? I've got answers for you. I think we need to talk—privately."

Grabbing his crutches and leaving Wilson with Rainie, House followed Bernie out of the room and into an empty room nearby.

"So…?"

"I know at least part of what happened, but I can't explain it," said Bernie, a hefty, round-shouldered ex-Navy captain who ran the security detail at the hospital like a ship. "All three of the security guards… and the nurse… quit their jobs. In the middle of the night. At the same time. Around 3 a.m. Without giving notice."

House looked at him. The longer he was here, the more surreal this day was becoming. Could he be dreaming again?

"That doesn't make any sense," he said, stupidly. Well, that was the most obvious thing I've said in a long time, he thought. "Have you talked to them yet?"

"Nope. Not yet. I've got my people trying to get through to them right now."

"Are we any further on finding out why she was moved?"

"I'm hoping that if I can get hold of even one of these four, I might get a little more information. No one else seems to have seen anything out of the ordinary, but then it _was_ three in the morning."

House heard this news with dread. "What do you think is going on?" he asked hesitantly. An idea was forming in his mind, an idea he didn't like.

"Well, I think it's pretty apparent that someone has paid them all a lot of money to ignore their duty to this hospital and to this patient. What I need to find out is why… and make sure it never happens again."

T-t Tee. T-t Tee.

Campanella looked over at House, who had turned pale. Very pale.


	14. Chapter 14: White As a Sheet

**Chapter 14**

White As a Sheet

"**D**r. Wilson, you need to come with me right now."

Wilson looked startled as Bernie Campanella strode into the room and grabbed him by the arm. Rainie recoiled and cried out.

"Shhh! What do you think you're doing?" Wilson said in a stage whisper, simultaneously trying to settle the trembling patient.

Campanella grimaced. "Sorry, Dr. Wilson. But you really need to come with me right away."

Wilson looked alarmed. "What is it? House?"

Campanella nodded as he headed toward the door. Wilson jumped up from his chair and followed him out, calling for a nurse. He found Jessie.

"Please watch Ms. Adler for a few minutes. Keep her warm and talk softly to her. I'll be right back."

"Sure thing, Dr. Wilson," she said. "Are you headed in to see Dr. House?"

Wilson didn't respond, but ran after the security chief.

When he entered the room, Wilson didn't see House at all. What he saw instead was a medical team hovered over a prone figure on the floor.

Wilson's heart stopped and he couldn't breathe.

"What… happened?" he gasped.

Campanella shook his head. "Damned if I know. All of a sudden he got white as a sheet and collapsed."

Wilson waited helplessly as the team worked on his friend. He caught occasional glimpses of House through their bodies. To say that he was white as a sheet, as much of a cliché as that might be, was no overstatement. House was the color of an orchid petal, transparent and fragile looking. From what Wilson could see, the tremor in his hands was pronounced.

What was actually only a few seconds seemed like an hour to Wilson. Finally, a very young man he didn't recognize came up to him. "Dr. Wilson?" he said.

"Yes. What's going on? What happened?"

"He just fainted, sir. We're not sure what set it off, but his vitals are okay. It's not his heart or a stroke, thank god. He should be fine, but we might want to do some additional tests when he feels better, to make sure there aren't any underlying conditions."

Nodding silently in relief, he went over to where House lay on the floor, as the remainder of the medical team ambled off.

House was not quite as pale as he'd been when Wilson entered the room, but he was shaking. Wilson kneeled down and watched House breathe a moment before saying anything.

"Hey, big guy."

Warily, House looked around. "Shit," he said. "What happened?"

"Apparently, you fainted."

Suddenly, House remembered his conversation with Campanella. He shut his eyes tight and tried not to think about it.

"What? What is it, House?" Wilson tried to keep that note of alarm out of his voice, but wasn't successful.

"I hope I'm wrong—god, I hope I'm wrong," said House, "but…" It couldn't be. It just couldn't be. He turned pale again.

Concerned, Wilson grabbed his arm. "What?!"

As matter-of-factly as he could, House poured it out. "They all quit at the same time. Bernie thinks someone paid them off. Rainie was injured again. And all she could say was 'T-t Tee.' Right?"

"Right, but what…?"

"'T' for Thompson?"

Oh. No wonder House fainted. Wilson's mind raced. Even if it turned out to have some truth to it, he had to nip this in the bud immediately. The thought was too horrendous.

"That's insane, House," he said. "I saw the body. The man's been dead for three years. His people are all locked up."

"How do we know? How do we know they're _all_ locked up?"

"This is ridiculous. It's been years. Why would anyone wait that long to resurface? There's _got_ to be another explanation. There just has to be."

He wanted to tell House to just pull himself together, but knew that wasn't possible—the man was handling it the best he could. He tried a different approach.

"Do you think you'll be all right?" he asked. "I mean, for Rainie. You're the only one who's been able to get through to her, and she really needs you." As soon as House had left the room, she'd begun to shiver and cry, curling herself back into the fetal position and hyperventilating. Wilson had spoken softly to her, but nothing helped. She was flat-out terrified.

House exhaled a deep breath. He focused his eyes intently on a spot just past Wilson's right shoulder. "I guess I have to, don't I?"

Wilson nodded.

"Are you okay sitting?"

House, though still pale and trembling slightly, sat up cautiously. After a moment in which he didn't faint again, he smiled a grim smile.

"Okay," he said. "Get me my crutches."

They made their way back to Rainie's room, only to discover she was gone. Again.

Before they had time to panic, however, Jessie appeared at the door to tell them that she'd arranged for Rainie to be taken back to her own room on the third floor.

Almost laughing in disbelief and relief, the two doctors headed back to the third floor.

It was 9:20 a.m.

*** * * * **

**T**wo hours later, Lisa Cuddy returned from Philadelphia to a hospital in chaos. She was greeted by dozens of urgent messages, a flurry of activity and an FBI agent sitting in her office.

"What on earth is going on?" she asked as she walked toward her desk. "I'm out of the office for less than half a day and all hell breaks loose. Why are you here?"

"Dr. House called me," said Roberts noncommittally.

"House?" That seemed unlikely.

"Yes, Dr. Cuddy. It seems that in the middle of the night several of your staff people suddenly resigned; Ms. Adler has been moved around the hospital, suffering some new injuries in the process. House is concerned about the possibility that a residual group of Thompson's men may be continuing their vendetta."

Cuddy gaped at him and sat down abruptly.

"Th-that's not possible. Is it?" House must be too stressed out over handling Rainie's case to be thinking clearly. Maybe she'd give him a leave of absence to get himself together.

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't think it was possible," said Roberts, dispassionately.

"Are you serious?" Obviously, he was. He was here, and presumably other FBI agents were as well. Maybe she was the one who needed a leave of absence. "So what do we do?"

"We're checking it all out. After everything I've seen about Thompson and his organization, nothing would surprise me."

Cuddy thought quickly. This was intolerable. Two patients who need both medical care and protection were at risk.

"How's Rainie?" she finally asked. "How's House?"

"Ms. Adler will be fine—just a few bruises." He paused.

And House? How was House?

"Dr. House is pretty shaken up, which isn't surprising, but he's okay. He's in with Ms. Adler right now."

Cuddy felt a headache starting behind her right eye.

"What can I do to help?" she asked, fidgeting with a pencil.

"Don't worry about it, Dr. Cuddy. We've got it under control right now. I've got agents checking out the room she was moved to, dusting for prints, watching the security videos and tracking down the four employees. I've assigned some key people to stick around for a few days, just to keep an eye on things. We'll try not to be any more disruptive than necessary."

And how disruptive was necessary? she thought.

*** * * * ****  
**

**T**he videos turned out to be unhelpful. Apparently the move happened while the third-floor nurse on duty was away tending to another patient. The three security guards pushed a gurney into room 304; sometime later, the three of them plus the nurse brought Rainie out on the gurney and toward the elevator. Rainie was writhing around, and they had trouble holding her on the gurney. Suddenly, she flipped off the gurney onto the floor, landing on her right side. The three security men picked her up and placed her back on the gurney, this time strapping her to it. One of them put his hand over her mouth to muffle her terrified cries.

The next video showed them leaving the elevator on the second floor, which was much less traveled than the third floor. Rainie's nurse engaged the nurse on duty in conversation, and then the two of them headed off toward the lounge. The three security guards took the gurney into 207.

Five minutes later, an unknown male figure wearing a dark coat and carrying a large case entered 207. The figure, whose face was never clearly shown—left 30 minutes later.

That's all they knew so far.

*** * * ***

**A**t about the same time Cuddy was talking to Roberts, House was upstairs in 304. Rainie was dazed by what had happened—and House wasn't much better. He sat at her bedside for the better part of an hour, just being near if she needed anything, and trying to remain calm. He was really successful only at the being near part. His mind was whirring; he kept pushing away the thought that it was all starting again, and fighting down the nausea caused by that fear.

As soon as it became clear that she wasn't going to wake up for a while, House felt himself dozing off. He woke with a start—no more sleeping for him today, he thought, not after last night. But eventually exhaustion set in and he dozed off once more. When Wilson came back to the room after his interview with agent Roberts about this morning's activities, he found House sprawled uncomfortably in the overstuffed chair, sleeping fitfully, his brow furrowed and his hand twitching.

Concerned that his friend might be headed toward another fearful nightmare, Wilson came close and gently woke him.

"Hey there, Grumpy. C'mon. Let's get out of here for a while. I'm starving. Let's go get something to eat."

That sounded like a plan. House realized he hadn't had anything to eat since last night's leftover kung pao chicken. He wasn't terribly hungry—in fact, he didn't know if he could keep anything down—but he knew he needed to get way, and eating something was probably a good idea.

"Where to?" he asked, steadying himself on his crutches.

"I dunno. Let's get out of the building. How about Italian—Colombo's?"

"Works for me." Leaving Rainie in the nurse's care, he followed Wilson out of the room.

House used to be very fond of linguini, vermicelli, fettuccine, angel hair, even spaghetti. But, just as he could no longer handle chopsticks when he ate Chinese food, he could no longer manage the trick of twirling pasta on his fork. So he settled for baked mostaciolli, which was easier to deal with.

Fortunately, it was one of their better restaurant experiences. For once, the waiter didn't stare or ask rude questions, and House's appearance went unnoticed by the other customers.

While they were waiting, and during the meal, Wilson said very little. House said even less. He stared vacantly in the general direction of the silverware, his mind elsewhere, his emotions churning. Although he wasn't aware of it, his feelings were telegraphed on his features, and Wilson had no difficulty reading his friend's state of mind. Terror, anger, concern for his patient, an attempt to wipe away these unpleasant associations and then right back to terror again. All were apparent on House's face.

"Hell of a day," said Wilson finally, as he finished off his chicken marsala.

"And that's just so far," said House, rising, leaving two-thirds of the mostaciolli on his plate.


	15. Chapter 15: No Clues

**Chapter 15**

No Clues…

**T**he FBI agents weren't happy. The fingerprint dusting had turned up nothing useful. There were no clues in room 207. Roberts' people had been unable to track down any of the four missing PPTH ex-employees, although they had learned from a couple of snoopy-nosed, night-owl neighbors that two of them had left suddenly in the middle of the night. In all probability, the others had also.

It was all very frustrating. Probably the most frustrating part was the mysterious man with the large case. They checked the security videos from the parking lot, and got nowhere. A car, a dark-colored Mercury Grand Marquis, pulled up and dropped the mysterious person off, then drove away. Later, it came back and picked up mysterious person and drove off again. The images weren't clear enough to get a license number. The hospital really needed to upgrade its outdoor video system.

Roberts didn't take the situation lightly. Today's circumstances were too strange to ignore, given the past history of House and Adler. The House case had taxed him professionally and emotionally for three years, and he would do almost anything to avoid a repeat.

Cuddy took charge of the hospital. She scheduled emergency meetings with each department and on each floor. Without going into detail, because she assumed the grapevine had probably taken care of that, she explained that there had been a serious breach of professionalism that had jeopardized two patients and detailed just what the procedures would be from now on. She also authorized the immediate purchase of a new state-of-the-art security video system.

The FBI took over hospital security so that by the time House and Wilson returned from lunch, PPTH felt like a very different place. The two doctors were asked for ID as they entered the building, and then were escorted to the third floor. As they got to room 304, they were again requested to show ID. Out of the corner of his eye, Wilson glanced at House, who seemed to be somewhat comforted by the strict security measures.

"I better try to do some of my own work," he said, heading back toward the elevator as House went into 304.

A new nurse—his nametag said Mark—was sitting in the comfy chair next to Rainie's bed, when House entered the room.

He responded to the quizzical look on House's face. "Still sleeping, Dr. House, although she seems agitated." Like me, thought House. Agitated. That's a nice way of putting it. "And I think you should review her pain meds—she may need to have her dosage upped."

He offered House the chair, which House gratefully accepted.

Rainie was indeed restless, her pulse was fast and she was moaning low in her throat. House okayed increasing the dosage of her drip.

He settled back into the chair, and, using both arms, hoisted his damaged right leg onto the ottoman. That same medical journal was still on the floor. He was getting tired of looking at it. Nevertheless, he picked it up again and tried to find his place, although he knew it was pointless.

Twenty minutes later, Rainie woke up suddenly, panting from a nightmare and thrashing in the bed. House dropped the magazine, slid his leg off the ottoman, which he shoved out of his way, and scooted himself closer to her side.

"Rainie! Rainie!" he whispered. "It's okay. Hey, look at me. It's okay." She squirmed as his hand touched her arm. "Really, it's all right. No one's going to hurt you. Everything's okay." Yeah, right, he thought. Like I really believe that.

Once she had really looked at him, recognizing that battered face, she settled down a little.

"Evie! Where's Evie?" she asked him, urgently.

No! Oh, not now, he thought. Not today. Couldn't she have waited just one more day to start asking for her daughter?

"Hey!" he hissed, turning toward the nurse. "Get Dr. Liu up on the fifth floor. Page her if you have to. Or call her cell." Mark ran out of the room.

House thought quickly. Should he tell her or not? Obviously she wasn't aware her daughter had died. In the old days, he'd have been blunt. But this wasn't the old days, and he of all people had learned that sometimes tact was necessary. He was going to have to wing it.

"Evie's not here," he said. Well, that was the truth at least.

"Ohhh," she said, looking around as if he'd said the opposite. "Where is she? Bring her to me?" This was the most Rainie had spoken since being admitted. On one level a good sign, just exceptionally bad timing.

House exhaled a slow count of ten before answering in a soft voice. "I can't, Rainie. I really can't." No, he really couldn't.

"Evie! Evie!" She began crying out, much of her pent-up emotion trembling in her voice.

He didn't know what to do. Where the hell was Jacey Liu?

Where the hell _was _Jacey Liu? At that moment, she was having lunch with several colleagues from the team. When her cell went off, she flipped it open and listened. Mark had no details except that something was happening with Rainie and that Dr. House wanted her to come quickly. Grabbing her purse, she threw some money at the table, explained where she was going and ran out the door.

In the meantime, House struggled. Once again, he clambered up on the bed, and put his arms around his patient, and tried to keep her calm. He wasn't succeeding. She was getting more and more worked up.

"Evie! Why can't she come to me? You said it was all over! Evie! Evie!"

This is quite awful, thought House. Taking a deep breath, he decided on the truth and hoped for the best.

"Rainie, Rainie. Listen to me."

She stopped chanting her daughter's name and looked up at him.

"There's no nice way to tell you this. There's no way to say it so it won't hurt. So I'm just going to say it."

Rainie took a deep breath, seeming to sense where this was going. Her eyes filled with tears.

When he saw her reaction, he nodded to confirm what she was thinking. Tears began to spill over her lower eyelids, dropping down on her emaciated cheeks.

"I can't bring her to you… because something happened. Rainie, I hate to have to tell you this… but she's dead," he said slowly, carefully, as if he were stepping around landmines. "Evie's dead. Thompson's men killed her… I'm really sorry." And he really was.

She stopped breathing for a minute, then incredible howls of pain began to escape her, deep gut-wrenching wails. "No! Evie! No…! Not my baby…!"

About five minutes into this, Jacey Liu slid open the glass door.

What? she pantomimed, her arms outstretched and her hands skyward.

Her daughter, he mouthed.

Jacey nodded, and then ran out to get a sedative. When she got back a few seconds later, the scenario looked much the same, except that now House was holding her very tightly, his head bent over hers, and Rainie had turned her face toward his chest, which muffled some of her cries.

He glanced up when Jacey came back in.

"You okay?" she whispered.

"_Metza metz_," he whispered back. "I've had better." Pitifully, he'd also had worse. "What should I do?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

"Keep doing what you're doing for now," she whispered. "Let's let her cry for a while, if you're okay with that, and then I'll give her a sedative."

No, he was _not_ okay with that, but he didn't see any alternatives. Since he was the only one Rainie seemed to trust, he couldn't just turn her over to Jacey because it was uncomfortable and inconvenient.

Finally, after what seemed to House to be an eternity, Jacey came closer and gave Rainie the sedative injection. Soon, the patient slipped down out of House's arms. He crawled back off the bed, and called Mark to come tuck her in and take over.

Picking his crutches up off the floor, he followed Jacey out of the room, turning down the hall toward his office. His office. He realized he hadn't been in his office—either one of them, in fact—so far today. And it was… he looked up at the hall clock as he scooted under it… 2:52 p.m. Just enough time to take a Vicodin.


	16. Chapter 16: How Much Do You Know?

**Chapter 16**

"How Much Do You Know?"

**S**even times in the last two hours, people in the hospital had approached Naveen Ajunta to find out what was going on. The problem was, he didn't know. Rumors, of course, were rampant. Something about a problem during the night. He'd heard Cuddy's lecture about security and professionalism, and was unenlightened. He'd been there when Jacey got the message from House. It was apparent that it had something to do with their case, but House hadn't returned any of his messages. All he could do was wait.

So he waited. He sat in the board conference room, and waited as the other team members trickled in. He was reasonably confident they'd be as clueless as he was. They were. They all waited together. The physical therapists mentioned they hadn't been able to give Rainie her massage that morning because of… well, whatever it was that was going on.

Everyone was there except Gregory House, Jacey Liu and James Wilson.

At six minutes past three, Jacey Liu came in, followed by Dr. House.

He dropped into _his_ chair, leaned his crutches against the table and looked around the room. Clasping his crushed hands on top of his head, his twisted fingers threaded through his hair, House closed his eyes a second and took a very deep breath before unthreading his hands from his hair and grasping the edge of the table to keep his tremors at bay.

"I told you this wasn't going to be easy," he started. "How much do you know?"

After a long pause, Ajunta answered: "Not much. We know something happened last night, and that you called Jacey. That's about it. Oh, and there are security people all over the building."

House sighed. How much should he tell them? He glanced at Jacey, who was sitting across the table and a couple of seats down from him. She looked at him reassuringly. Of course, she didn't know about last night—either the nightmare/cops scenario or the FBI/Thompson scenario.

Just as he was about to start, Wilson came in, sliding into the closest chair.

"Did I miss anything?" he asked of no one in particular.

"Dr. House was just about to give us an update," said orthopedist Karen Langley on the other side of the room.

House bit the bullet, and started on the day's soap opera. He didn't mention the Thompson connection, not that Wilson thought he would, but he told them all about the security breach, Rainie's new injuries, the mystery of the disappearing employees, the FBI and the newest part, which Wilson didn't know, and about Rainie learning about the death of her young daughter.

Jacey Liu jumped in. "She's sleeping right now, but of course these new traumas are something we will need to address."

As the meeting progressed, House's mind wandered elsewhere. All he could think about was what Roberts had told him about the mysterious man with the large case. Who was he? One of Thompson's men? What did it mean? What was going to happen next? The idea and its possible ramifications consumed him. The petrifying possibility that the horror was returning for him and for Rainie was nearly overpowering. He gripped the edge of the conference table tightly to control his shaking hands. It took all his self-control not to fall apart in front of the entire team.

Wilson glanced at House, who looked, if possible, worse than he had a couple of hours earlier. This is eating him alive, thought Wilson.

"Speaking of addressing, let's get back to our game plan," said House, shifting the conversation to the long-term strategy for Rainie's care. The white board behind him still contained the group's notes from the day before. On Tuesday, without drawing too much attention to his own limitations, House had assigned Claudia DuBois to be the note-taker. She stood up and went to the board.

They continued their brain-storming from the day before.

Jacey watched House intently as the meeting progressed, occasionally looking away to take notes so her observation wouldn't be too obvious. On the surface, he appeared to be fine. Some of his snarkiness inserted itself into the conversation now and then, and he guided the discussion with no problem.

But underneath, she saw a man who was barely holding on. When others were speaking, House seemed distracted by his own thoughts and emotions. He pulled himself back to the topic quickly, but with difficulty.

Both Ajunta and Wilson were also watching House and coming to the same conclusion, but based on different data. House sounded laryngitic, his voice coming out only slightly above a whisper. When he occasionally let go of the table's edge, his hands wavered badly, much more than they had the day before. He was pallid, and his breathing was shallow and quick. Wilson was quite sure his heart and pulse rates were elevated. The stress of the Thompson connection was clearly getting to him, much as he might try to hide it.

Finally, the interminable meeting came to an end. Before House excused the group, he asked Karen Langley to stay a moment.

Wilson, Ajunta and Liu all hung back, each hoping to talk to House. He looked up them, annoyed.

"Freak show's over for the day. Pay your two bits and come back tomorrow," he said, making it clear they were dismissed.

They slipped out of the room, but once in the hall, they began to compare notes about their concerns. Because of the special nature of her professional relationship with House, Jacey Liu listened more than she talked. And because of his friendship with House, Wilson talked only in generalities. But Ajunta expressed his apprehensions about House's physical health and whether he was up to the physical strain of this case.

Inside, Karen Langley sat down next to House.

"What's up?"

"What can you tell me about Ian Yeung, the hand surgeon?"

Langley was surprised by the question. She thought he was going to ask about his upcoming surgeries.

"Oh, he's marvelous," she said. "He's doing quite remarkable things in hand reconstruction. Are you thinking of bringing him on board? He'd be a tremendous asset to Ms. Adler's recovery."

House hadn't considered bringing him on board, but now that she'd brought it up, he agreed that it was a good idea.

"I was actually wondering if he might be able to help me," mumbled House, almost as if he were embarrassed.

For a moment, Dr. Langley was taken aback. But as she thought about it, she realized—as Jacey Liu had a couple of days earlier—that she had two patients, not just one.

"If his work is as good as it sounds, yes, he should be able to improve your function, increase your flexibility and strength, and probably decrease your pain level significantly."

"I see," said House, noncommittally. "And how difficult would it be to try to schedule one hand surgery simultaneous with my leg surgeries in a couple of weeks? What would the downside be?"

Startled, Langley thought for a moment before answering.

"I can see several downsides," she said, "apart from the possibility that Dr. Yeung may not be available. You're already having two surgeries simultaneously; adding a third creates a lot more stress on your system. Plus it's far more complex to coordinate the hospital staff for three surgeries with two surgeons than for two surgeries by the same surgeon.

"In addition, the recuperation will be considerably more difficult. It's one thing to function with a leg in recovery; it's quite a different thing dealing with a hand. And dealing with both, whether on the same side of the body or opposite, becomes exponentially more problematic. You'd need 24-hour care for a couple of weeks, as opposed to part-time care for a few days for the leg or a day or two for just a hand."

"I see," said House, sadly. He sounded bitterly disappointed. Langley hadn't really told him anything he hadn't already suspected, but he'd hoped.

Karen Langley gently put her hand on his shoulder. He looked up. His eyes were deeply disturbed.

"May I ask why this was so important to you?" she asked. "Maybe we can find an alternate course of treatment."

House didn't intend to admit the real reason. As the day had progressed, as it had gone from awful to pathetically worse, he'd found himself thinking again and again of the keyboard he'd hidden in the closet. He desperately, achingly wanted his hands back. He wanted to at least try to play piano again, to release some of this emotional pain that was chewing him up inside.

"I don't think there is an alternate course," he said. "Unless I do one of the hands first, and put off the leg surgeries."

Langley thought about it. Medically, it made more sense to stick with the plan they had already developed together. The leg surgeries would ultimately provide him with greater mobility, which he needed. But something about the longing on his face made her think that perhaps, if it meant that much to him, mobility might not be the most important thing to Greg House.

"Tell you what. Let me talk to Dr. Yeung. If you'd like, I'll invite him to join this team." House nodded his agreement to that suggestion. "And I'll see if I can set up an appointment with you to discuss doing some hand surgery before we get to the leg. How's that?"

_That _was the best thing that had happened all day, with the possible exception of lunch with Wilson. No, it was better than lunch with Wilson. Much better. Shouldn't get his hopes up, though. There might not be a whole lot Dr. Yeung or anyone else could do with his hands.

"It's good."

"You realize, of course, that if we can work this out, you may have to use a wheelchair for a while? You won't be able to manage the crutches after hand surgery."

"Yup. Got it."

"Okay, then. I'll see what I can do."

After she left the room, House staggered to his feet and left the room. He found the trio still waiting for him outside.

"What's the matter with you people?!" he asked with considerable irritation. He'd known by the looks on their faces throughout the meeting that they were worried about him, and he just wasn't having any of it; it was a bad enough day without morons fawning all over him.

"Don't you have anything better to do? I'm starting to feel like frog guts under a microscope. Quit inspecting me, and just leave me alone. Get out of here, all of you!"

He waved his right crutch at them to make them scatter. Then he lumbered down the hall away from them, muttering under his breath something about idiots with medical degrees.


	17. Chapter 17: Time to Go

**Chapter 17**

Time To Go…

**W**hen he got back to his fifth-floor office, he found the door guarded by a very large FBI agent named Fred.

After inspecting House's ID, Fred allowed him to enter his own office. With a sigh, House closed the door behind him and collapsed on the couch, sliding his crutches onto the floor as he did. Just as he was started to nod off, the phone near his head rang.

"What?!" he snapped impatiently.

It was FBI agent Roberts, who wanted to give him an update.

"On the phone will be fine," said House curtly.

"There's really no news," Roberts began.

Before he had a chance to go further, House said, "Then why are you wasting my time? Call me when you have some news." He hung up and closed his eyes.

An hour later, he awoke with a start to hear knocking at the door.

"House, it's me." Wilson poked his head in.

House rubbed his eyes and sat up. "Time to go?" he said, hopefully.

"God, yes," said Wilson. "I can't wait to get out of here today."

You and me both, thought House. He checked on Rainie on the way out, leaving word with Mark to have him paged if she woke up in any kind of distress.

*** * * ***

**W**ilson invited himself over for the night, and House was too tired to object. They had a couple of roast beef sandwiches and chips in front of the television, with Wilson studiously avoiding bringing up any of the day's events. This was not the kind of day you wanted to rehash.

At twenty minutes to six, Wilson's cell phone rang. It was Cuddy.

"Don't say anything to House," she said quickly, "but it looks like Channel 2 has another story. Is there any way you can get away to watch it with him knowing?"

"No, not really," said Wilson, trying not to look at House, who was sitting right next to him watching a Discovery Channel special on dental hygiene. "Nope."

"Well, then, take your chances and good luck to you both," she said, hanging up.

"Cuddy?" said House.

"How the hell could you know that?" asked Wilson, startled. After all the years he'd known House, he still couldn't get used to that uncanny perception.

"If I told you, it wouldn't be so mystical the next time," said House. In actuality, he'd been able to hear Cuddy's voice quite clearly through the cell, and knew exactly what he was being shielded from. Great. Just great. As if this day couldn't get any worse.

To throw Wilson off the track, he asked if Cuddy's call had anything to do with dozens of FBI agents traipsing all over her hospital. Wilson lied in a straightforward manner and said yes, that Cuddy was wondering if Wilson had talked to any of them since this morning.

At about five till six, House started trying to prepare himself for whatever Channel 2 was going to dish out. He really didn't want a repeat of Monday's adventures in regurgitation. He'd actually enjoyed his dinner and he hoped to keep it.

At six, he clumsily grabbed the remote and changed to Channel 2. Wilson stared at him. Whatever possessed the man, tonight of all nights? "What's the matter with you? Why would you want to watch that tripe?" he said. "Unless you've suddenly developed a passion for drunken celebrities."

Just then, the Channel 2 logo swung into view. After a few seconds of blather, they came to the point. Again, there was House floating in mid-air.

How did he know, wondered Wilson.

"A couple of days ago, we told you we'd bring you further developments on the story of Dr. Gregory House as they became available. Here with an update is Sally Juniper. Sally?"

There she was, outside PPTH, prattling on, recapping the House case and House's involvement with Rainie's Adler's case. Back to you, John.

"I understand there are two new developments in this situation, is that right, Sally?"

"Yes, John. First, Channel 2 has obtained exclusive video of Maureen 'Rainie' Adler at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Let's take a look."

Both House and Wilson gasped as they saw video of Rainie clearly shot in room 207 in the middle of last night. She was uncovered and shivering, staring terrified at the camera and sobbing. Her badly set bones and bruises were all too apparent.

"As you can see, John, there is no nurse or doctor in the room with Ms. Adler, or any monitoring equipment, which is a major violation of hospital procedure, especially for such a serious case as this. In addition, you'll note she is both cold and upset, which suggests that she is not getting any kind of proper care. Where are her doctors and nurses? She doesn't even have a blanket or a pillow. We will continue to investigate this apparent breach at PPTH, and report back when we have more information about the situation."

House felt himself flushing with anger; he was so livid, he was quite literally seeing red as the blood pulsed behind his eyes and a vein throbbed in his forehead. Where before his heart had been pounding out of fear that Thompson's vendetta had been reinstated, now it pounded in fury. He looked at Wilson, who had clenched his jaw.

So what was the second development?

As if he'd been listening to House's thoughts, John said, "Sally, you said there were two developments. What's the second?"

"As you mentioned earlier, Dr. Gregory House, who himself survived years of torture, has been assigned as the lead physician for Maureen Adler's case. In our last report, we expressed concerns about his ability to cope with such a stressful situation given his own tragic history.

"Well, we just received a copy of a police report stating that at around three-thirty this morning, Dr. House was cited for disturbing the peace. That's about the same time this hospital video was shot, which means that Dr. House was not available for his patient—who was clearly in need of his care—because he was involved in an altercation with local authorities.

"What was he doing in the middle of the night, and why wasn't he watching over his patient? We spoke with one of the police officers involved, and he told us that apparently Dr. House was discovered shouting so loudly in the middle of the night that it woke up his neighbors down the street.

"This is the man who has been entrusted with the care of Maureen Adler. While she's lying untended and shivering, Dr. House seems to have suffered a nervous breakdown. Again, we express our concerns that he is up to this task. It certainly doesn't look like it. When we get additional information, we'll bring it to you. Back to you in the studio."

Wilson pressed mute, reached out a hand and put it on House's shoulder. House flinched, shrugging away Wilson's hand. To say he looked distraught would be a wild understatement. Oh, shit, thought Wilson.

On cue, the phone rang. Wilson put it on speaker.

"Hi, Cuddy."

"I'll sue the fucking bastards," were the first words out of her mouth, followed by, "I'll have them locked up, and I can guarantee the FBI's going to have something to say about this." She was so angry, the only words coming to her mind were of the profane variety.

She waited for a moment, expecting Wilson to say something. Nothing. Then she heard House speaking in a tone of voice she'd never heard him use before.

"How do you want to proceed?" he asked. His quiet voice was calm and cold, but underneath the coldness was a deadly anger. "By airing that film and implying that we're not capable of taking care of her, they may have compromised Rainie's care—not even counting the damage they may have done by moving her around in the middle of the night so they could pull off this little stunt."

Cuddy thought quickly. "We need to fight back and fast. I'm going to call Sam Kostal, our general counsel, right now… and Joe Roberts, to ask if the FBI can intervene. He needs to know anyway. Would you be willing to make a statement, House?"

"I'm willing, but they've just ensured that no one will believe me. I'm now the cracked-up doctor who's disturbing the peace in the middle of the night instead of taking care of his seriously ill patient. My word isn't going to mean a whole lot here, at least not to the press or the public. I don't think I'll be much help to you for PR purposes."

"That's nonsense," said Cuddy firmly. Changing the subject, sort of, she added: "Speaking of, how on earth did you manage to disturb the peace in the middle of the night? Aren't most people asleep then? Somehow, I can't see you having a bar fight or blaring your stereo. Maybe in the old days, but not now."

House didn't say anything. He looked at Wilson as if to warn him off the subject. Wilson chose to ignore the warning.

"It's Wilson, Cuddy. He had a nightmare, and his yelling woke up a neighbor."

She kept her voice deliberately light. "Sorry to hear it, House. That must have been a nuisance for you."

House said nothing, choosing not to mention the fact that he remembered none of it, or that, at least according to Wilson, he'd screamed for a quarter of an hour. Certainly his throat felt like he had.

"It was an… interesting way to start the day," said Wilson.

House broke in. His voice no longer sounded cold and angry, but dejected. "But the truth isn't going to help. Even if the real story comes out, it just makes me look like a flake who can't handle anything. I should just step down from the case… and I think I ought to resign from the hospital. It'll be better for you and better for Rainie."

Damn, thought Cuddy. I was afraid he was going to go there.

"Not a chance, Gregory House. You're still the best goddamn doctor we've got, and you're the best doctor Rainie Adler could ask for. I will not have her care compromised any further just because these jackals are making a stink. And if you try resigning, you'll have me to deal with. You're staying put, and I'll handle this."

"I guess the good news is that maybe it's not Thompson's people behind what happened," said Wilson.

Good old Wilson, trying to find the sunny side of life. And he did have a point there. I guess it _is _a good thing, thought House. I'd rather be angry because of these hyenas than terrified for myself and Rainie. And since I've had both of those feelings today, I'm in a good position to compare them. Provided, of course, that Thompson's people really aren't involved. He certainly wasn't willing to commit yet. Thompson had been perfectly capable not only of unspeakable cruelty but also of intricate Machiavellian maneuvers.

"I'm just so sorry this is happening to you," said Cuddy. "I'd give anything if it could have been avoided."

"Yes, that would have been my preference, too," said House flatly, regaining a little of his spirit. "In fact, almost anything would have been my preference compared with today. I've had much better days than this." And then, in a whisper, as almost as a throwaway: "Of course, I've had worse, too."

His last sentence hung in the air.

Cuddy still wasn't used to a House who would open up the door a crack to his harrowing past. She didn't know what to say.

House did.

"Well, that brought conversation to a crashing halt. Why don't we do the same with this phone call? Let me know what Roberts says." Without waiting for Cuddy to say goodbye, he disconnected.

"Enough," he said. "I've had enough. More than enough."

"How are you feeling… physically, I mean?"

"Everything hurts," came the casual reply. "I haven't had my Vicodin yet and I think there's definitely morphine in my future."

Wilson started punching buttons on the phone. "Let me see if Linda can come over and give you a massage. And I'm definitely staying here tonight—I don't think either one of us wants a rerun of last night."

After calling Linda, he checked his messages, and grimaced. Frank Parson was in a bad way, and he needed to go to the hospital. He grabbed his jacket and headed out the door. "I'll be back as soon as I can. You okay?"

House nodded. Linda lived only a couple miles away, so she should be here shortly.

About five minutes later, the doorbell rang.

Why doesn't she just use her key? thought House irritably, heaving himself off the couch, grabbing his crutches and limping toward the door.

"What's the matter with… y…" the words died in his throat as he saw Alan Pevey glowering in the doorway.

"What's the matter with me?" Pevey said, viciously. "You're what's the matter with me. I got fired. That's what's the matter with me. And like the end of my marriage, it's your fault, you fucking bastard!"

House tried to shut the door on him, but Pevey was too strong. He pushed his way in, slamming the door open and poking his finger at House, who was backing away.

His voice got louder. "You've cost me my marriage, my career—everything! I told you you'd better stay out of my way or I'd make you wish you'd never been born. Well, you couldn't leave well enough alone, could you, you fucking arrogant son-of-a-bitch!"

House felt the ever-present fear rising in him. He tried to fight it down, but, quite simply, it defeated him. He waited, knowing that tone of voice meant only one thing—pain. He wished he could summon up the anger he'd had just a few minutes ago, but it seemed to have vanished.

Pevey started pushing him. Because House was always unsteady on his crutches, it didn't take much for Pevey to knock him to the floor. He landed hard on one crutch, and felt something give in his left ankle. The other crutch clattered to the floor. Here it comes, he thought, curling up on his left side on top of the crutch he'd landed on, and trying to protect his head with his arms. Pevey grabbed the other crutch and started battering him with it. House felt some of the old wounds on his arm, back and right side flare up, and he could feel blood starting to trickle down his face.

Make it be a dream, thought House. I can deal with it if it's a dream.

Pevey kept hitting him with the crutch, aiming now for his tender right thigh. The additional pain was more than he could stand. He screamed out in agony and began to whimper.

"Oh, and you're a fucking baby, too, aren't you? Thought you were such hot shit, but you treated everyone around you like crap. And now you can't take it, can you? How'd you like the news tonight, huh, House? You destroyed my career, you piece of shit. Well, I'm gonna destroy yours."

Suddenly, House was angry again, mostly because, he realized in an instant, Pevey was taking out his hostility not just on him—who may have deserved it—but also on Rainie, who most certainly did not.

"You moron!" he shouted through the blows, trying to sit up and fight back. "You deserved everything that happened to you. Except maybe the first part—your wife. But everything that's happened to you since you've done to yourself. How dare you jeopardize my patient? Take it out on me, not on her!"

This enraged Pevey further and he began alternating between House's head and his right thigh. It took only a few whacks before House started to pass out. Pevey kept hitting him with a deranged passion.

The pain was agonizing. As bad as it was on a daily basis, he'd actually forgotten how bad it could get. Struggling to stay conscious, he shut his eyes and pretended he'd already passed out, hoping Pevey would let up.

Pevey did let up, but only because something else happened.

House opened his eyes a slit when the beating suddenly stopped. He saw two pairs of feet shod in big boots cross the room followed by a pair of loafers.

"FBI! Put your hands on your head!"

Well. That was an interesting development. Since House's hands already were over his head, he assumed the statement was meant for Pevey. He opened his eyes the rest of the way to discover he was right.

Pevey was standing next to him, mouth agape, hands on his head—hands that were bloody with House's spattered blood, now smeared on Pevey's forehead.

"You're under arrest!" said the same voice. It sounded sort of familiar. "Get him out of here!" He heard the plastic handcuffs ratchet tight around Pevey's wrists. The two pairs of boots took Pevey's sneaker-clad feet away with them. House could hear a faraway voice saying, "You have the right to remain silent…"

Now House saw the pair of loafers come close to him, and then knees came into view.

"Dr. House?" said the sort of familiar voice. "Dr. House, it's Joe Roberts from the FBI. Are you all right?"

"No," he said, "I don't think so. On the other hand, yes." Definitely better than if Roberts and his men hadn't shown up when they did.

"I'm calling for an ambulance, okay? You just lie there and I'll get you some help."

While he was placing the call, Linda walked in to find House bleeding all over the floor and a strange man on the telephone.

"Dr. House! Are you all right!? What happened here?"

He was starting to lose consciousness, but he struggled to answer. "It's okay. FBI." He felt himself slide into nothingness.


	18. Chapter 18: Chaos in the Emergency Room

**Chapter 18**

Chaos in the Emergency Room…

**A**s Wilson left the hospital parking lot, he pulled over to let an ambulance screech past his car. Frank Parson was stable; he'd be okay till morning. But when he got back to the duplex, he found a distraught Linda McAllister cleaning up blood from the floor and no House.

"Wh-hat happened here? Where's House?"

"Hospital," said Linda, answering the second question first. "Don't know what happened. Two FBI agents were taking away a man in handcuffs when I got here, and the third was calling an ambulance. He took off once it showed up."

"Is-is he okay?" Wilson couldn't catch his breath. This just wasn't possible. Had House been right? Was it Thompson?

"I don't know, Dr. Wilson. He looked pretty bad. I sat with him till the ambulance got here. His pulse was weak." She stopped abruptly. She was far more upset than she even let on. She'd grown very attached to the cantankerous doctor and very protective of his precarious health.

"Come on!" said Wilson, turning toward the door. "Do you want to take your own car or ride in mine?" She chose her own.

*** * * ***

**W**hen they arrived back at PPTH, the emergency room was in confusion. FBI agents and local cops were everywhere, while Cuddy stood at the center, looking as if she were directing traffic. Outside, he saw television camera crews pulling into the parking lot.

"Wilson!" she called out when she saw him. He and Linda worked their way toward her through the mass of people.

"How's House?" Wilson asked over the noise, growing increasingly anxious.

"Don't know yet," she yelled back.

"What's happening? What happened?"

"All I know is that Alan Pevey is under arrest. I'm waiting for Roberts to get back so I can find out the rest of the story."

Pevey?

Leaving Linda in the reception area, Wilson headed toward the back part of the emergency room. Along the way, he ran into Chase, Foreman and Rajghatta. "What are you three doing here?" he asked.

"Stayed late with a patient," said Chase. "We saw them bring House in. What happened?" Anxiety clouded their features.

"Wish I knew," said Wilson, above the commotion. "I'm trying to find out."

Squeezing past a couple of people he didn't recognize, Wilson made his way into the room where a medical team was working on House. He was lying unconscious on a gurney, surrounded by three ER doctors, a couple of nurses and a bunch of wires and tubes. There was blood all over him.

One of the physicians saw him out of the corner of her eye, and beckoned him over.

"How is he?" asked Wilson.

"Not great," came the reply. "At the very least, he's got a fractured skull, a fractured cheek and a broken ankle. We've got his neck stabilized in case of spinal cord damage. Some of his old wounds have been re-injured, and he's covered in contusions on the right side of his body. We haven't even had a chance to check him out for internal injuries yet. Once he's stable, we'll send him through the MRI to check for brain damage."

Nodding soberly, a dazed Wilson backed out of the room. After updating the kids and Cuddy, he met up with Linda in the waiting room. Cuddy and House's staff soon joined them.

They tried unsuccessfully to make small talk for nearly 30 minutes, until Wilson saw agent Roberts weaving his way through the throng. Roberts saw them, and immediately came over.

"Dr. Wilson," he said. "How's Dr. House?"

"Not great," said Wilson, echoing the ER doctor. "What happened? I'd just left him a few minutes earlier. Was it Thompson?"

"No," said Roberts. "Is there someplace quieter we can talk?"

"How about our conference room?" asked Chase. "It's just down the hall."

"Fine."

Once settled in the Diagnostics conference room, Roberts told them what he knew.

"We've been watching House's place since yesterday afternoon," he said. "Just didn't want a repeat of what happened before."

"Then how could this happen?!" asked Wilson, frantically. "How could this happen?" He felt anger bubbling up like lava. Cuddy placed her hand on his arm. He exhaled and tried to settle himself down.

"I wish I had a good answer," said Roberts. "Our agents were stationed outside his place in a van. They saw you leave, Dr. Wilson, and then they didn't see anything again for a few minutes. I got there a little before seven, just to check in, and almost immediately, we heard yelling coming from inside.

"It must have happened very quickly, because by the time we got in there, Dr. House was already on the floor and in bad shape."

The group sat stunned.

"The irony here," said Roberts, "is that Thompson had nothing to do with this. It was apparently all Dr. Pevey. From what we can tell, he hatched the whole scheme with Channel 2 to get video of Rainie and make the hospital and House look bad."

Wilson thought of the mysterious person on the security tape. Pevey?

"So what's going to happen now?" asked Cuddy, while Foreman simultaneously said, "Now what?"

"Pevey is in jail, charged with attempted murder and aggravated assault, plus conspiracy to commit kidnapping for the incident last night. We'll add any other charges we can come up with. I want to see that guy locked up so long that Dr. House doesn't ever have to worry about him again."

"What about Channel 2?" asked Cuddy. "They've done a lot of damage to our reputation, to House's reputation and to Rainie Adler's medical care."

"We're on it," said Roberts. "We're going to throw everything we can at them, from conspiracy on the kidnapping charge to trespassing to assault. By the time we're done, you'll smell like roses and they won't have a reputation at all."

"How about Dr. House's reputation?" asked Devi, who had been sitting quietly absorbing all this information. "Is there any way to undo the damage they've done to him?"

Cuddy looked thoughtful, and exchanged looks with Roberts. "Some of it we're just going to have to ride out," she said, "as disgusting as that is. Earlier tonight, he offered to resign," she said, "but I'll be damned if I'll let him. We've really let House down in a lot of ways, but there's no way I'm going to let these jackals win. House has my, and the hospital's, complete support."

"Well, goody for you," said Wilson sarcastically. "But that doesn't undo the damage that's been done, or solve House's PR problem. They've made him look like an unstable incompetent."

Chase and Foreman looked at Wilson. Clearly, the stress was getting to him.

Roberts interjected. "I think a lot of that will get cleared up once we deal with Channel 2. We've got the hospital videos showing Rainie getting moved to the second floor, her fall from the gurney and Pevey—if it was Pevey—entering the room. Plus, we have Pevey's attack on Dr. House."

Devi spoke up. "Does anyone know how he found out where Dr. House lives?"

"We think he followed you home, Dr. Wilson," said Roberts. "Probably waited until he saw you leave."

Wilson felt sick. He looked at the others; they looked like he felt.

"Is there anything we can do?" asked Chase. "I feel helpless sitting here doing nothing."

Wilson thought a minute. "Yes," he said. "Someone needs to contact Rainie's team, especially Naveen Ajunta, and let them know what's happened. And I'm sure some of Rainie's friends saw that newscast. See if you can get House's cell and coordinate with Ajunta on returning calls."

Cuddy nodded. "Tell them as little as possible for now," she added, meaning Rainie's friends. "I'll start dealing with the press. Maybe you'd better join me," she said to Roberts, who nodded.

Rainie's team was called right away, and most of them rushed to the hospital to see how they could help. Rainie's friends were concerned, of course, and a couple of them were furious about Channel 2's report. The kids did their best to keep them calm.

Four hours later, they were all still waiting on word about House's medical condition. About 90 minutes earlier, he'd been hustled into an operating room for emergency surgery. Karen Langley was in with him. Wilson paced in the observation room above, watching anxiously, while everyone else except Cuddy and Roberts waited in the diagnostics conference room.

Jacey Liu was in with Rainie, who had suffered a bad nightmare. When she woke up to find, not those deep blue eyes and those familiar hands, but someone else, she had been inconsolable and Jacey had to give her another sedative.

It was 3:17 a.m., and Wilson hadn't slept in 24 hours.

_Page 4 of 4_


	19. Chapter 19: Absorbing the News

**Chapter 19**

Absorbing the News

**N**aveen Ajunta tracked Wilson down in the observation room. Laying a hand on his colleague's shoulder, he said, "You need to sleep."

"I know," said Wilson, who was bone tired. "I just have to know he's all right."

"Go to your office and lie down for a while," Ajunta ordered. "I'll come get you as soon as he's out of surgery."

Wilson nodded. He wasn't sure he had enough energy even to get to the elevator.

*** * * ***

**I**n the diagnostics conference room, House's department was absorbing the shocking news.

Despite his mixed feelings about House, Foreman was angry. Angry that somehow the man hadn't been protected. He looked at Chase. He knew they were both wondering how House could possibly recover from this new blow. House hadn't been in great shape to begin with—stubborn as all hell, yes, but physically devastated. And now, who knew if he was even going to survive? Yes, Foreman was angry.

Devi, who knew House the least, was the most overtly affected. "How could this happen?" she asked randomly. "How could anyone who called himself a doctor willfully jeopardize a patient and brutally attack someone in House's condition?"

Chase shook his head and rubbed his forehead with both hands. "I don't know, Devi. I don't know. Pevey was a lazy guy, and always had a bit of a temper, but he's never been quite right since his marriage broke up. You weren't here then, but, oh lordy, it was ugly. The poor bloke had an affair, and House told his wife about it. He came home that night to find all of his stuff in the yard. He kind of dived off the deep end after that and never really swam out again."

Devi looked startled. She hadn't been around when House's manipulations had that kind of mean edge to them, and so had trouble reconciling what she was hearing with the man she'd come to know.

"He couldn't… Why would he do that?"

Foreman jumped in. "Because House is an ass. Pevey wouldn't operate on one of House's patients, so he blackmailed Pevey and threatened to go to his wife about the affair. Pevey did the surgery, and House, for whatever reason, told his wife anyway. Like I said, he's an ass."

Even though Foreman might not have noticed it—probably because he had such strong preconceived opinions of House—Chase was aware that over the last few months, since he'd returned to work, House was considerably less manic and a lot less downright nasty than before. It hadn't stopped him from being manipulative and occasionally infuriating, but now his intrigues seemed a lot more benign. An ass, yes, but an ass who had saved his life. And Foreman's too—a fact Foreman seemed loathe to acknowledge.

"Sure," said Chase, trying to present the other side, "he can be a total jerk, but no one deserves what's happened to him. And to have it happen again… it's unbelievable."

*** * * ***

**T**wo hours later, Ajunta knocked on Wilson's door. Wilson woke with a start.

Peeking his head in, Ajunta said, "He's out."

Groggily shaking his head, Wilson stood up and trudged after Ajunta to the recovery room.

*** * * ***

**PRINCETON, N.J.** (AP) — Dr. Gregory House, the eminent diagnostician wrongfully imprisoned for murder more than six years ago, was attacked in his home last night. House, who was tortured both before and during his imprisonment as part of a vendetta by the late millionaire businessman Robert Thompson, is in critical condition at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital (PPTH).

Agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation have arrested Dr. Alan Pevey for the crime. Pevey, a former colleague of House who had been fired by the hospital earlier in the week for endangering the lives of two patients, was scheduled to face charges of unethical conduct by the American Medical Association next month.

The FBI had been at PPTH earlier in the day, looking into some disturbances concerning another patient, Maureen Adler, a former _New York Times_ reporter who had also been falsely imprisoned and tortured in connection with Thompson's vendetta against House. House, whose conviction was overturned nearly two years ago and who returned to his job at PPTH several months back, is the lead physician on Adler's medical team.

According to FBI agent Joseph Roberts, Pevey conspired with two local television reporters from Channel 2-Princeton to create a staged video of Adler in the hospital with the intention of casting doubt both on the hospital's ability to care for Adler and on House's capabilities as her physician.

"This was one seriously disgruntled former employee," said Roberts. "He wanted to discredit the hospital that had fired him and, in particular, Dr. House, whom he blamed for getting him fired."

"We dismissed Dr. Pevey immediately after his actions directly compromised the health and wellbeing of two patients, one of whom was a patient of Dr. House," said Dean of Medicine Dr. Lisa Cuddy, the hospital administrator. "Dr. House had nothing to do with the decision to fire Dr. Pevey. His dismissal was a unanimous decision by the board of directors."

Allegedly, Pevey and some unnamed associates inside the hospital broke into Adler's room late Wednesday night, moved her to another room, injuring her in the process, and staged a false television report from there. Hospital security video backs up these allegations. Charges are pending against the reporters and the station as well as the associates, former hospital employees, who had been paid by the station to cooperate.

Adler remains at the hospital in critical condition. She is currently under FBI protection, as is House.

Three federal agents, including Roberts, interrupted Pevey's attack on House, Robert said. "Dr. House, who still suffers serious physical damage from his imprisonment and the trauma connected with it, was virtually defenseless during the assault," said Roberts. "This is an incredibly brave man—one I'm proud to know—but there was nothing he could do to protect himself."

Roberts said that House, who walks with crutches as a result of his previous injuries, was knocked down by Pevey and attacked with one of his own crutches. The full extent of his latest injuries is not known at this time. House is considered by many to be one of the greatest medical minds alive today.

Roberts asks that anyone with information pertaining either to the conspiracy against PPTH or the assault on Gregory House to contact the FBI's Princeton office.

*** * * * **

**W**hen the real press—not the tabloid variety—got hold of the information that an insane old bastard of a doctor had colluded with Channel 2 to shoot trumped-up video of a seriously ill patient, had injured her, _and_ had violently assaulted the now-infamous Dr. Gregory House, leaving him in critical condition, it was game, set, match.

As the news hit the wire services, even Channel 2's less-than-ethical owner couldn't ignore the legal implications of what her staff had done. Sally Juniper and Neal Hutchins were promptly fired, before the competition had a chance to report their part in this breaking story. As they left the station, they were arrested.

PPTH and House had won the PR war without firing a shot. Roberts had been right.

Rainie's _New York Times_ colleague Evan Schuster woke up late that morning. Grabbing a cereal bar, he ran for the subway, barely getting to the _Times_ by 10 a.m. Making his way to the third-floor newsroom, he plopped himself down at his desk and, as he always did, started scanning the wire service headlines.

I've got to stop taking time out to sleep, he thought, astonished at what he was reading. There's some bat-shit crazy people out there. And they all seemed to have it in for Gregory House.

*** * * ***

**C**autiously, Rainie opened her eyes. Her doctor, the one who looked so familiar, the one with the deep soft voice, the blue eyes and the hands, wasn't there. Again.

In his chair was the other one, the small, attractive Asian woman. Rainie searched the room. He wasn't anywhere.

"Rainie," said the woman. "Good morning. I don't know if you remember me—I'm Dr. Liu."

She looked at the woman with a mixture of anxiety and distrust.

Dr. Liu reached her hand out slowly toward Rainie, who pulled away in fear and began to shiver. Jacey removed her hand.

"It's okay, Rainie. I won't hurt you," she said.

Rainie thought about it. So far, this woman hadn't hurt her… but how could she be sure she wouldn't? Where was her doctor?

"Where?" she asked.

"Where what?" replied Jacey.

"Where is my doctor?" she asked slowly.

Dr. Liu paused. "I'm your doctor," she answered.

Rainie didn't like this answer. She began to hyperventilate.

"It's okay, Rainie. It's okay."

"No! _My_ doctor. Where is _my_ doctor?"

Jacey realized she was going to have to deal with House's absence somehow.

"I'm sorry, Rainie. He isn't here," she said, accidentally echoing the same phrase House used when Rainie had asked about her daughter.

The hyperventilating got worse.

"Can you bring him to me?"

Again, Jacey stumbled onto the phrasing that had prefaced Rainie's learning of her daughter's death. "I can't, Rainie. I really can't."

Suddenly, Rainie tumbled into the throes of a full-fledged panic attack. She couldn't catch her breath, her heart was racing and she began to sweat. She looked around the room frantically, crying out for the doctor who, at that moment, couldn't help her. He couldn't even help himself.


	20. Chapter 20: The Prognosis

**Chapter 20**

The Prognosis…

**T**he phone rang three times before anyone answered.

"Hello?" said a man's voice.

Wilson hung up without saying anything. If House's mother had answered, he would have told her what was happening. But after John House's behavior toward his son the last time around, Wilson just didn't feel up to talking to him.

*** * * ***

**W**ilson sat dozing by House's side in the recovery room. The staff had thoughtfully provided him with a comfortable chair, which was a good thing, because Wilson was so exhausted, he'd probably fall off of anything else. He'd meant to ask for a complete rundown of House's injuries, but he was so tired and so anxious, he hadn't done it yet. Maybe he didn't want to know.

House looked… well, terrible. Wilson had never seen him look this bad, not even when he first saw him in prison after Thompson's death. Then, he'd been emaciated and frightened. Now he was broken, bloodied and bruised.

His left ankle was in a cast. Fortunately, Karen Langley had already mentioned that it was a clean break, and probably happened when he fell. It was his right side that was worrisome.

The right side of his face was swollen to the point that he was barely recognizable. In addition to the fractured skull, he had a serious-looking black eye—his lid was completely swollen shut—and the area around his mouth was purple, his lips puffy. From the bandages, Wilson could tell that his cheek had been fractured as well, and perhaps his nose had been broken.

And that was just his face.

He was on a ventilator. His right shoulder was heavily bandaged, perhaps from another fracture or a break, possibly from torn ligaments or tendons, and his right arm as well. From what Wilson could see, his chest was wrapped, so that might mean broken ribs. Under the wrapping, Wilson saw more bruising and a long incision.

The worst was his right thigh. Because it was such a sensitive area for him, it also seemed to invite particular abuse. The whole area was bandaged so that it was double its normal size. Wilson didn't even want to imagine the damage that had been done.

There had to be internal injuries as well, with all that bruising and swelling.

He rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands. Slowly his head sank to his lap, and he fell asleep for nearly an hour.

"Dr. Wilson?" The voice sounded very far away. "Dr. Wilson?" Now, it sounded closer. "You'll have to wake up. We need to move Dr. House to his own room now."

Wilson stumbled along behind the gurney as House was taken out of the recovery room and into room 123, not far from the Diagnostic Medicine Department. As he passed the conference room, Wilson noticed the blinds were open and all three of the kids were asleep at the conference table. He realized he'd completely lost track of Linda, and wondered if she was still at the hospital somewhere.

Several hours later, after sitting by House's side and sleeping a little more, Wilson went back to ICU to find the doctors who had worked on House, one of whom was Karen Langley. He found her in the lounge, nursing a cup of coffee and staring at the floor. A tall, redheaded woman in her 40s, she looked worn out.

"Hi, James."

"Hi." He got himself a cup of coffee and took a seat near her. "I'm not sure I want to know, but what's the prognosis?"

Keeping her head low, she raised her eyes to look up at him. "It's too early to say," she said. "But it doesn't look good. For a healthy person to receive a beating like that would be pretty serious; for someone in House's condition…" She let the sentence trail off and looked back at the floor.

Wilson was dazed. After everything that had happened, after everything House had been through already… Wilson couldn't imagine the stubborn old cuss not surviving this.

"Once I'm a little more awake, I'd like to look at his chart," he said.

Langley nodded. "Of course," she said. "I can give you the basic rundown, although I'm sure you've figured most of it out already. His head is probably the worst. Fractured skull, fracture in his cheek, lots of contusions. Thank god his neck wasn't broken. We're taking him off the respirator shortly if there are no complications.

"Of course, head injuries are always tricky. We're going to monitor him carefully for the next few days. He may have been lucky on this—his head wasn't bounced around much, so the injuries are localized. We won't know for a while. We'll have to do mental status testing once he's conscious.

"Further down, he's got a fractured right shoulder, a broken arm and a couple of broken ribs, plus more contusions. We found some internal injuries, especially in the chest area. We're watching for infection and bleeds. The right thigh is particularly ugly, but fortunately it seems to be mostly bruising. It's just such a tender area, it's going to be especially painful. If he survives."

Well, that pretty much wrapped it up, thought Wilson. If he survives. Wilson drank his coffee in silence for the next couple of minutes.

"Do I want to ask about recuperation?" he asked.

Karen Langley glanced up again. "Slow. Painful." Suddenly, she stood up and began striding quickly around the room. "Goddamn it, James. It's just not right. I mean, I know he's behaved like an jerk to a lot of people over the years, but it was always apparent to me that it was a protective covering, something no one should take too seriously. He's mulish and determined, but that doesn't do any good if the body is so damaged it can't recover."

Wilson stopped breathing. She doesn't think he's going to make it, he thought. He watched in shock as she got more agitated.

"It's impossible. The man has just barely gotten his life back, and he's working desperately hard to make a meaningless ordeal mean something, and this asshole destroys it all in, what, 10 minutes?"

As Karen Langley sat down again, angry tears streaming down her cheeks, Wilson felt despair wash over him. The two medical professionals sat in the doctors' lounge and cried for a man who would be revolted if he knew about it.


	21. Chapter 21: What the Team Heard

**Chapter 21**

What the Team Heard

**S**till stunned, they gathered for Friday's 3 p.m. meeting in the board conference room. It was impossible not to look at the place where House had sat only the day before. Today, his chair sat empty.

Wilson wasn't there, which wasn't surprising. Jacey Liu was with Rainie, but was expected any minute. Karen Langley was in ICU, but said she'd try to stop by. In addition to the regular team, Ajunta had asked Chase, Foreman and Rajghatta to sit in, since the conversation would concern them.

This is just like the other time, thought Chase, recalling his shock when Allison Cameron had been murdered and House had been arrested for that murder. My brain just won't work right; thinking is like trying to swim in pudding.

Naveen Ajunta cleared his throat. "Let's get started. We have a lot to work out."

The room quieted down. Notebooks opened and pens were readied.

"Given the circumstances, I guess we'd better rethink everything. What still applies from before, and what needs to be updated? In addition, I've asked the Diagnostic Medicine department to join us, because what happened affects how they will do their jobs. Claudia, would you be willing to continue doing the honors at the whiteboard?"

A red-eyed Claudia DuBois got up and made her way to the board as Jacey Liu slipped quietly into the room.

"Thanks. Let's start with some basic administrative tasks. Not unexpectedly, some of Rainie's friends and colleagues have been calling. I'd like to arrange a meeting with them as a group so we can brief them all at once. Would someone be willing to coordinate that? If House…" he paused, realizing he'd heard a slight gasp when House's name was mentioned. "…If… the situation… hadn't changed, I'd do it myself, but I'll be taking on more duties now."

Throughout this speech, Ajunta had avoided looking at the faces around the table, afraid that his colleagues' feelings might trigger his own emotional reaction.

Devi volunteered to help. I've got to do something, she thought, something constructive.

Methodically, the group went over Rainie's treatment plans, adjusting strategy and brainstorming new ideas based on what had happened over the last couple of days.

The biggest hurdle facing the group was what to do about the role House had played in Rainie's recovery. According to Dr. Liu, Rainie had woken up a couple of times. When she didn't find House at her side, she became distressed, and Liu had needed to sedate her. She wasn't responding well to anyone else, Jacey included. Finding someone Rainie could trust as much as she had House was going to be difficult, if not impossible.

The conference room door opened slowly, and Karen Langley entered, followed by Wilson. It was obvious to everyone present that both had been crying.

Chase looked away, unable to view the raw anguish on their faces. Please, god, no, he prayed. His chest hurt and he couldn't swallow. Not for the first time, he wondered where god had been during House's suffering. And now this.

The faces around the room looked away as the grim pair settled into vacant chairs.

Ajunta took a breath. They needed to know, one way or the other, he thought. And suddenly, he was in charge.

"Dr. Wilson, Dr. Langley," he began, "may we have an update on Dr. House's condition?"

Wilson shook his head slightly, unable to speak. Dr. Langley looked at the whiteboard a moment before speaking.

"It's hard to have to say this," she said, pausing.

No, no, no, thought Chase, desperately.

"We've done everything we can," she continued. "I know we'd all like to believe that Dr. House is… somehow invincible… after everything he's already been through. But the truth is that sometimes the damage is too great." A couple of tears slid down her cheek.

Ajunta heard a sob from across the room. He didn't know where it came from.

Realizing at last how people were reacting, Wilson finally spoke up, slowly and shakily. "No, he's not invincible. What Pevey has done to him is catastrophic. But somehow, he's still holding on."

"Thank god," whispered Chase, finally allowing tears to fall.

Dr. Langley pulled herself together. She spoke haltingly. "When he was injured before, the intention was to cause him pain but to make sure he continued to live. This time, the intention was clearly to kill him. His injuries are quite severe, especially to his head. We're not going to know for some time if he's going to survive. And if he survives, whether or not there will be brain damage.

"Even without brain damage, he faces yet another long and painful recuperation. I can't imagine that he'll be able to work after this, perhaps ever, but certainly not for a very long time. We're going to have to proceed without him."

Jacey spoke up. "I know this may sound trite, but all of us here can't help but be affected by what's happened. If any of you need to talk about it, I'll make myself available."

As the meeting broke up, Ajunta saw several members of the group hug each other before leaving. All of them were clearly still in shock, but they had developed the beginnings of a game plan.

*** * * ***

**W**ilson was drained. He'd slept a few hours here and there, but nothing that would qualify as a full night's sleep. As tired as he was, he knew he needed to call House's folks before they heard about it on the news.

The phone rang three times, just like before, but this time, a woman answered.

"Blythe? It's James Wilson. Something's happened that I need to tell you about."

As an oncologist, he'd gotten good at delivering bad news, but telling cancer patients they were terminal was different from telling his best friend's mother he'd been injured… again.

He broke the news as gently as he could. There was a long pause on the other end. He could tell she was crying.

"Thanks, James. We'll fly out as soon as we can."

_We'll _fly out, she said. His father is the last thing House needs, thought Wilson, who once again found himself puzzled by House's father.

The man seemed to have a gruff affection for his son, but there was no denying that father and son irritated and infuriated each other. It was almost impossible, even under the best of circumstances, for them to be in the same room together. There was always seething tension under-girding their interactions that made everyone around them acutely uncomfortable.

"No, don't," said Wilson quickly. "Wait till we've got more information. There's no point now. I'll let you know when he's up to having visitors." If he's ever up to having visitors, he thought.

"Dr. Wilson?" It was John House. Damn, thought Wilson.

"Yes, Mr. House?"

"What the hell is going on?"

"Your son has been badly injured," replied Wilson, trying to avoid giving him any information he could twist around.

"Is he okay? Tell me what happened."

Wilson sighed.

"He was attacked, Mr. House."

"What, again? What did he do this time?" he blurted out.

"Nothing," said Wilson, stifling his surge of anger. "Nothing justifies this."

John House was a man of limited imagination, who through years of conflict with House, had developed a very narrow view of his son. Part of the problem came from his military outlook. In some ways, he'd never been able to get past the fact that his son had an inherent streak of anti-establishment stubbornness that refused to kowtow to authority, whether that authority was a teacher, his boss or his father.

In John House's mind, an order was to be obeyed, unquestioningly. For his son, an order was to be avoided, gotten around or just plain flaunted. The two men were never going to have a meeting of minds about it.

In part because of this fundamental clash, John House had never really been able to see past their fractious relationship to comprehend the man his son actually was. In his mind, it was some sort of odd fluke that Greg was a world-renowned doctor. The idea of it had created such a paradox in his head that he tended to set aside that part of the equation because he just couldn't figure it out.

The whole situation was sad in a way, because he did actually love his son. He just didn't understand him. So, despite everything that had happened, despite all the evidence to the contrary, nothing could shake him from the belief that Greg had brought all this upon himself.

"Oh, for crying out loud. You know he did something to deserve it. He's never been able to control himself. He's always been a troublemaker."

That tore it. Even knowing it would upset Blythe, Wilson slammed the phone down on House's father.


	22. Chapter 22: By the Bedside

**Chapter 22**

By the Bedside…

**W**ilson headed back down to House's room in the hope that there had been some improvement. There was none. Under the noise of machines, he could hear House moaning, a low rumble of pain.

An hour later, he woke up in the chair next to House's bed. He looked at the monitors. Still stable. Still moaning.

*** * * ***

**S**omebody needed to shut that guy up. He was making too much noise; he sounded like a walrus in heat or a sick basset hound. It wouldn't be so annoying, except for the headache. The room was too bright, the light hurt his head and that idiot was too damn loud.

What did he have to drink last night, anyway? This must be one hell of a hangover. In addition to the headache, he was just plain uncomfortable. He couldn't remember last night, not really. Maybe if he just turned his head… no, no… _ouch_! That wasn't such a good idea. He didn't seem to be able to move around or get more comfortable. Well, this was a bitch.

He started to feel sleepy, and decided to just lie still. Maybe that would help his headache. If that guy would just shut up. The one who was moaning.

*** * * ***

**W**ilson's eyelids drooped again, and he felt himself slide into that halfway place between sleep and stirring.

"`Ilson."

Wilson opened his eyes. House still lay propped up and unconscious in the hospital bed. Shaking his head slightly, Wilson allowed his eyelids to close again.

"`Ilson."

Wilson nodded off.

"`Ilson. Wahe up."

Suddenly, Wilson was very awake. He stared at House, whose eyes were still closed.

"House?"

"`Ilson."

Wilson saw House's swollen mouth move slightly as the garbled name came out. It wasn't possible, but he was awake… and able to speak. Wilson took in a gulp of air, feeling as if he hadn't breathed in hours. He pressed the call bell for a nurse.

"House? Is that you? I'm right here."

"`Es, id's ee, oo idiot. Oo o oo ink id is—de oice uh god?" said the mouth. Somehow, Wilson managed to correctly interpret the mumble as "Yes, it's me, you idiot. Who do you think it is—the voice of god?"

Wilson was so relieved, he started to cry.

House's left eye opened and squinted at him.

"Oo're a `oron," said the distorted mouth.

*** * * ***

**B**y the end of the day, it was all over the hospital that Dr. House had regained consciousness and seemed to have at least some brain function.

After calling Wilson a moron, House had stayed conscious long enough for Karen Langley and a couple of ICU doctors to check him out, during which time he complained that there was no TV in his room and leeringly admired Langley's breasts.

"I-I don't know what to say," said Langley to Wilson following the examination. "If I'd placed a bet, it would have been a large one that he wouldn't ever regain consciousness. Or that even if he did, he'd have severely compromised brain function—but that he probably wasn't going to survive the night anyway. Of course, the long-term prognosis is still uncertain, but this is good. Very good."

Then, after a pause, she added, "I'm _so_ glad I was wrong. Sometimes, thank goodness, things don't go the way statistics say they should. You could be the one walking down the street who gets hit on the head by a falling brick and dies, or the one who survives nine days in an earthquake. I guess House is the earthquake guy. At least for now."

*** * * * **

**F**or the next three days, House continued to surprise his doctors, his friends and colleagues.

His mouth and tongue were so swollen he was almost unintelligible, but that didn't keep him from talking, despite the swelling and the bruises. Although he slept a lot, he was also awake a fair amount and consistently verbal, which was a relief to all, even if his verbosity tended toward the offensive and the profane. Which, for House, was actually not that unusual.

He was in a lot of pain, but then, that wasn't unusual, either.

Early Monday morning, he asked to speak to Cuddy and Wilson together. He made them a proposition. As the two stood next to his bed discussing it in disbelief, he fell asleep.

*** * * ***

**W**ith apprehension, Evan Schuster arrived at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital at 9 a.m. Monday to meet with Rainie's medical staff. When Devi Rajghatta called him about setting up a meeting with all of Rainie's friends and co-workers, he had made a counter-offer. He'd come alone and pass the word along to everyone else. Secretly, he was hoping that if he came alone, he might have a better chance of getting to see Rainie.

The two had been in the same journalism program at Northwestern, and had been good friends ever since, often having lunch together a couple times a week until the trouble started, when she inexplicably picked a fight with him and refused to talk to him again. Rainie had even named her daughter Evan after him, calling her Evie for short.

As he entered the reception area, two policemen greeted him, asking to see his ID. They passed him on to another security person, who escorted him upstairs to a walnut-paneled conference room lined with, to his untrained eye anyway, original and expensive paintings.

The panel on one wall slid down to reveal behind it a whiteboard that seemed to be covered with colored writing from Dry-Erase markers. All he could read were a few partial phrases and words: "Trust issues Rai..." "…chological recovery." "…uled surgeries."

He helped himself to a cup of coffee and then eased himself into one of the plush chairs and waited.

"Hi, Mr. Schuster? I'm Dr. Ajunta. We spoke on the phone."

They shook hands and Dr. Ajunta sat down. "I've asked a few of the others from Ms. Adler's medical team to join us. We'll try to answer all your questions."

He was soon joined by Yuen and DuBois, the physical therapists, Dr. Langley, Dr. Liu and other members of Rainie's team.

They methodically described her treatment to date, outlining the extent of her injuries.

He asked how Dr. House's condition was affecting treatment.

"To be honest," said Ajunta, bluntly, "his absence is setting her back."

So far, they said, she was not responding well to any of the other people who came in contact with her. She had developed a level of trust with Dr. House that had been impossible to replicate. And they were fearful about how she would react if he never came back or if she found out what had happened to him, a situation that could shake her fragile sense of security.

Then they asked Evan if he would be willing to see her, hoping that, perhaps, if she saw a familiar face, it might help.

This was just what he wanted.

*** * * * **

"**H**e can't be serious," Wilson said to Cuddy after they had left House's room. "He's in worse shape than she is… and he thinks hecan help her?"

"It sounds insane, doesn't it? But House has been saying insane things to me for years now, and he's almost always right."

"But this is different. He's in critical condition, he's on even higher doses of meds than usual and the downside is… he could kill himself," said Wilson, his voice rising. "He's risking his own life for a patient."

Cuddy thought for a moment before responding. The question was, did the dangers outweigh House's desires? Although she didn't care for House's plan, she also believed that anything he felt this strongly about might be worth trying, if at all possible. He'd gone through—well, it didn't bear thinking about what he'd gone through—and she wanted to support him, even if she had her doubts. Besides, making House's decisions for him generally had bad consequences, as she and Wilson both knew well.

"James, how is this different—I mean, fundamentally different—from what he did for us? He not only risked his life for us, he chose to hold onto that life, knowing it would be filled from that point on with excruciating pain, so that you and I could be sitting here right now. How is that different from this? He sacrificed himself for us, and he's willing to sacrifice himself for her."

She was right and he knew it. But even though House's life seemed to mean little to him, it meant a great deal to Wilson. He'd come close to losing his friend again, and didn't want anything to jeopardize House's recovery. Wilson found himself feeling protective, very much as he'd felt when House was first released.

Cuddy watched Wilson wrestle with himself.

"Tell you what," she countered. "Just because we both have qualms about this, and we don't know how much of House's decision might be based on—I don't know—trauma or medication or something else, let's do this on a trial basis. We tell him we take it day by day. As long as it doesn't seem to compromise his own recovery too much, he gets to continue. But we keep monitoring on a regular basis, which we'd be doing anyway. How's that?"

That worked for Wilson.

Together, they told the rest of Rainie's team.

*** * * * **

**W**hen Dr. Liu slid opened the glass door to room 304 for him, the first thing Evan saw was a bed. On it was a very small figure, curled up tight.

As they got closer, he held his breath as he began to see the damage. Before, Rainie Adler had one of those perfect complexions—smooth, pink, clear. Now, her face was mottled and scarred. He could some of the scars extending down her neck.

One arm was lying on top of the blanket, and it too was riddled with scars. Her hand was warped and distorted, fingers askew and the hand itself seemingly without bones. He'd only seen hands like that once before—on Gregory House.

Emotions bubbled up in him—rage, sadness, anxiety. He tried to compose his face and his feelings. When Rainie woke up—if she woke up—she didn't need to see him looking shocked.

Dr. Liu offered him a seat in a small armchair next to the bed. He sat and waited. Dr. Liu took another seat on the far side of the room.

About 10 minutes later, Rainie woke up.

As she had done for the last couple of days, she looked around the room for her doctor. When she didn't see him yet again, she let out an unhappy sigh. It was only then that she saw Evan.

Evan saw her scan the room. She seemed to see right through him. She was clearly searching for something or someone. Not finding what she was after, she settled back sadly. Then she saw a face she recognized.

"Rainie, hi," he said. "It's me, Evan."

Her mouth opened slightly and she stared at him.

"Evan?"

"Yes, it's me."

He wasn't able to read her expression. Rather than being glad, she seemed distressed to see him.

For Rainie, because she'd been sleeping or sedated, the last few days seemed like only a few hours. Despite House's reassurance that it was all in the past, without him present—and because of the mystery of his absence—she was slipping back into fear.

What Evan couldn't realize was how terrified she was. If Evan was here, was he in danger? Was he a tool to torment her? What was going on?

Jeff was gone. Evie was gone. Now, her doctor was gone. She was afraid that anyone she cared for would soon be gone. And now, Evan. Would he soon be gone, too?

Jacey Liu looked up, realizing Rainie was headed into another panic attack. She ran over, slowing herself down as she got close, and prepared another sedative, slowly injecting it into her IV. This was not getting any easier. Without House here, she wasn't sure how much they'd be able to help Rainie. And keeping her drugged all the time was not going to solve anything.

Evan looked dismayed.

"She's disoriented," said Jacey. "I'm not sure why, but she seems to feel uncomfortable with you here. Perhaps it's time to go. I'll stay with her. We'll try again another time."

Disturbed, Evan stood up to leave. Behind him, he heard an odd squeaking noise. As he turned toward the door, he was startled to see a hospital bed rolling through the entrance, pushed by an orderly and followed by several people wearing multi-colored scrubs. Lying on the bed, seemingly unconscious, was a tall, gaunt man, covered in bruises and wrapped in what seemed like yards of bandaging. Evan recognized the face. Well, half of it, anyway.


	23. Chapter 23: What Have They Done to Him?

**Chapter 23**

What Have They Done to Him?

**H**ours after Evan left, Rainie awoke feeling groggy. The room sounded odd. She couldn't quite figure it out, but something was different. She lay still a moment and just listened. She'd gotten used to the beep and hum of her machines, and now the sound was louder, and somehow more complex.

She opened her eyes just a little, always afraid of what she'd see. So far so good. It was the ceiling, as usual. Focusing in on the beeps, she heard her heart monitor clearly, but now, in the background, she detected another, fainter beep. She looked to her left and saw Dr. Liu, sitting in a chair, absorbed in a book. She looked to her right and gasped.

Instead of a big empty space occupied by a couple of chairs and an ottoman, now there was another bed and more equipment. It was close enough that she could almost touch it. She inhaled slowly, feeling her heart rate increase. She let out the breath quietly, and then took another deep one, exhaling it slowly, trying to fight off her growing dread.

_They could have hurt me in my sleep_, she thought, trying to reason with herself, _and they didn't. They could have taken me away from here, back to the prison, back to my cell, and they didn't. _

But she also remembered the night the nurse and the others had taken her out of here, frightening her badly and causing her to fall, leaving her cold and unprotected. Anything unexpected shook her. And this was certainly unexpected.

Suspiciously, she looked over at the bed. There was a man in it, a tall, very thin man who was making low moaning noises as he breathed.

_Oh, dear god_, she thought as she recognized the face. _It's my doctor. This is why he hasn't been here. What have they done to him? Is this a warning? They killed… killed my darling Jeff, killed my Evie, and now they've done something horrible to my doctor._ Anxiety overpowered her as her breath got ragged and she began to cry.

Jacey Liu heard a noise and looked up to see Rainie staring at House and beginning to panic. I knew this wasn't a good idea, she thought, getting up and squeezing herself between the two beds.

"Rainie, Rainie. Listen to me. It's all right." She continued speaking in a soothing tone, hoping it would calm her patient's fears. It didn't help. Then Jacey turned her attention to her other patient, gently laying her hand on his good shoulder and shaking him slightly.

"Greg? Can you wake up? Please, wake up. I think Rainie needs you."

Blearily, House open his left eye and saw Jacey standing nearby and Rainie hyperventilating and crying in the other bed. He had purposely arranged to have his bed situated so his left side—the one suffering very little new damage—would be closest to Rainie's bed, to mitigate her anxiety over seeing him injured. Evidently, that idea wasn't working very well.

"Rainie," he said, hoping his words sounded less garbled in real life than they sounded in his own head. "Rainie, it's me. It's okay. I'm still here. It's all right."

She hiccupped. Jacey slid back out from between them, and returned to her chair, looking up from her book now and then in case she was needed.

Tentatively, he reached his long left arm out in her direction, through the openings in his bed rail and then through hers. She saw the hand she'd come to trust edging toward her. Her breathing slowed. His hand reached the side of her bed, his long broken fingers resting on the blanket. She eased her right hand toward his and touched her mashed fingers to his.

"You're… hurt," she said, finally, looking not at the hand but at his face.

That's an understatement, thought Jacey, not knowing House was thinking the same thing.

From where she was, Rainie could see bandages on the far side of his head and body. As he turned his head slightly toward her, she could see the massive bruises on the right side of his face. The movement made him wince, which in turn caused her to flinch. He exhaled a pained breath, and then the intense blue eye looked back at her steadily.

Okay, now what? thought House. Gotta deal with it. How do I say it so I don't make things worse?

"Yup. Sure am," he offered. "That makes the two of us a couple of big babies, doesn't it?" he replied, as casually as he could, hoping she could understand him. His mouth and tongue were still swollen enough that certain sounds—particularly those involving his lips, like "m" and "p" and "f" and "b"—were indistinct.

Although it was a struggle for him to talk, she was able to make out what he was saying.

Startled by his offhand response, she smiled. "I guess it does," she said.

Good, he thought; smiling is good.

"So we'll be a couple of big babies together," he said. And then, repeating what Jacey had said to him… could it have been only a few nights ago...? he added, "I'm not leaving you."

He saw her gazing at him, and he detected hope on her face.

"I'm going to stay right here with you until we're both well."

Or until we're both dead, he thought. Which at the moment, with his head hurting as it did, seemed much more likely.

He had barely moved and barely spoken, and yet he was drained. His face ached and he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep, but he wasn't willing to do it until he was sure she was okay.

Fortunately for him, she smiled and closed her eyes, lying back on the bed.

He did the same.

When Jacey Liu looked up, she saw both of her patients asleep, House's arm still on Rainie's bed, her fingers lightly touching his.

*** * * * **

**A**t Monday afternoon's meeting, the team discussed the logistical issues as well as the psychological aspects of treating their (now) two critically ill patients.

Jacey Liu began the meeting by describing House and Rainie's brief conversation. "Let me start with the good news. Having House move into the room is undoubtedly good for Rainie in many ways. Despite her natural distress and anxiety about House's injuries, she is in a much better place today than she's been for some time. As far as his patient's immediate care is concerned, House was absolutely right in making this decision. His response to her fear was perfect—lighthearted and humorous. He was able to do in a few seconds what the rest of us hadn't been able to do in four days."

Wilson, finally well rested, shook his head slightly in wonder.

Jacey continued. "Here's my real concern, and I think we need to figure out how to deal with it before it happens. Both of these very fragile people are prone to nightmares, panic attacks, flashbacks and other PTSD symptoms. I hope I'm not telling tales out of school…"

Here she looked at Wilson, who nodded confirmation for her to continue. "…but Dr. House has been subject to some truly debilitating episodes, especially lately."

Ajunta heard a murmur around the table. He looked at the faces, some of which were quietly shocked.

"I won't go into detail, but please… _please_," she continued, pleadingly, "don't judge Dr. House harshly because of this. What he has done, and continues to do, is… well, it's really remarkable, considering the demons that haunt him. As the mind heals, the emotions become more raw and the effects of PTSD can become considerably more pronounced. What he's been going through is normal. The fact that he's continued to function as well as he has is not.

"My concern has several parts. First, we have no way of knowing how Pevey's attack is going to affect House's own emotional recovery. This could push those emotions back inside so that he has to begin healing all over again. Or it could aggravate and increase the turmoil.

"Second, it's possible that if either of these two has a nightmare or other episode, it could set off the other. In particular, if House has an extreme nightmare or flashback—and by extreme, I mean a situation where he is completely out of control, either with fear or with anger—it could set Rainie's recovery back. I'm consulting with a couple other psychiatrists on this to see if there's precedent and how something similar might have been handled in those cases.

"The third thing has to do with House himself. As we all know, he tends to overlook his own welfare if his actions benefit others."

That's putting it mildly, Wilson thought.

"I'll let the rest of you deal with the physical aspects of his decision. My responsibility is his psychological health. At a time when he really ought to be focused on his own recovery, he has chosen to disregard his wellbeing for what he hopes will help Rainie. Right now, he needs to be taken care of, and yet he's put himself in a position of having to be responsible for someone else. This could help him, or it could hurt him.

"It's entirely possible that such close proximity to her recovery could aggravate his PTSD… or it's possible that Pevey's attack in and of itself could do the same thing. Should that happen, there will be an effect on Rainie's recovery as well. This is one of the reasons I was hesitant about House's idea.

"We're going to have to watch the situation very closely, and I'd really like to do a little brainstorming about how to address these issues should they arise."

Claudia DuBois opened her mouth hesitantly. "What exactly are you anticipating, Dr. Liu? Could you give us an example of what you're concerned about?"

Jacey pursed her lips and thought for a moment. While she was pondering, Wilson stepped in.

"Given what's happened in the last few days, I think it's obvious that we're all now treating two patients, one of whom just happens to be a doctor and the lead physician on the other's case.

"Let me tell you about an incident that happened just last week. The only reason I feel comfortable sharing it is that part of it has already been made public." As calmly as he could, Wilson talked about the mother of all nightmares on Thursday morning, describing the screaming, the fact that House couldn't snap out of it and the aftermath with the police.

For some around the table, his story came as little or no surprise. Others found it unsettling, including Claudia DuBois.

Jacey Liu stepped in. "If Dr. House were to have a similar episode, you can see how this might have a disturbing effect on Rainie. The question is how do we, as their medical team, handle it?"

After much discussion, it was suggested that House be asked to try to prepare Rainie for the possibility, and that the staff be told that if something should occur, Rainie was to be removed from the room immediately, until he had a chance to calm down. Although some on the team thought this was a reasonable approach, others had grave concerns about allowing House to continue sharing a room with Rainie at all under these circumstances.

"We've got a real quandary here," said Ajunta. "No matter what decision we make, there's a serious downside for both Rainie and House. If we remove him from the situation, we make it almost impossible for Rainie to trust anyone else. If he stays in Rainie's room, we risk the possibility that his PTSD will create a whole new set of problems for Rainie—and vice versa—and that he may suffer guilt over hindering her recovery. It's potentially a lose-lose."

"There's something else, too," added Jacey. "For House, losing his responsibility for Rainie could also get rid of one of his primary motivations for getting better. I would think that without Rainie to care for, after everything he's been through and the difficult future he faces, he might just prefer to die."

She paused a moment to let that idea sink in.

A murmur went through the room. Wilson, who had actively avoided thinking that thought, felt ill, although he knew it was almost definitely true. House's anguished plea ran through his head. _Please, please… just let me die. Let me die._

Because there were no easy answers, the group tabled that part of the discussion for now, agreeing to revisit it after a few days. Wilson found himself wishing he and Cuddy hadn't taken House up on his proposal.

Even the logistics of having two critically ill patients in the same room were complicated, but not nearly as complex as the psychological issues. Both patients needed monitoring equipment, which made the room a little crowded, plus, in case of emergency, there needed to be enough space for doctors and nurses to be able to get at each of them, if necessary

Part of the problem had to do with privacy. Basic bodily functions had to be dealt with and both needed to be bathed. The room, which was not designed for two, had no privacy curtain.

Before he moved into the room, House had rejected the idea of relocating the two of them into a larger room. "No. The whole reason for this is to be close by," he'd said. "If we're separated by a curtain, there's no point."

Of course, when he said it, it sounded more like, "No. Duh ho `eason `or dis is do me c'ose my. I' `eer'e sebaraded my a curdain, d`ere's no boind."

But they got the gist.

The group settled on a schedule for bathing and other privacy issues. They ordered a portable screen that could be set up between the two of them after sliding one of the beds further away. Because Rainie was now more mobile than House, it was agreed that she could be moved out of the room temporarily if he needed special attention, even if that increased her anxiety.

The PT team presented a staggered schedule of physical therapy to go into effect once House was ready. Other treatment would be coordinated within the group so that, except in case of emergency, each of them could be treated at separate times.

The meeting last nearly three hours. When it was done, Wilson and Jacey Liu trekked back downstairs to room 304.

*** * * ***

**L**isa Cuddy had her hands full, both literally and figuratively. She'd been sorting through press requests for the past hour, and had scooped up dozens of pink message slips to send off to Janice Pierson to handle. Stuffing them in a yellow inter-office message envelope, she scrawled Janice's name on the front and dropped it in her outbox.

As for the figuratively part, she had put in calls to the members of the board of directors to fill them in on the situation about House, Pevey and Rainie Adler. She had a meeting at two with the Diagnostics Department, to discuss how House's injuries would affect how the department functioned, and had requested visits from Rainie's (and now House's) nurses, who would stay in the room for the next day or so. Joe Roberts of the FBI had called, asking if he could see House. He'd be here tomorrow morning.

Since Thursday night, Cuddy had kept herself very busy, trying to avoid having any time to think about what had happened. Always a fidgety person, even under the best of circumstances, she had become a bundle of nervous tics. Now she sat her desk, twisting and stretching a rubber band in her hands.

She hadn't been able to bring herself to go see House. It had been hard enough the night he was brought in, when she just happened to be chatting with Karen Langley in the ER as the ambulance pulled up, the doors opened and the med techs came through with a very bloody and battered House on a gurney. Just thinking about it made her want to cry. He'd looked so frail and helpless. And then the long hours of waiting, not knowing if he would survive at all.

The idea that he faced another convalescence, more pain, more misery, more fear—she just couldn't stand it. She couldn't bear to see him like this, and just thinking about it aggravated her feelings of guilt.

No matter what she'd tried to do, she hadn't been able to protect him. It wasn't fair, she thought. Of course, it never had been, but this time she felt responsible for what had happened. Maybe if she had handled things differently. Over the weekend, she'd obsessed about the past few months. Was there something—anything—she could have done that would have stopped Pevey before he attacked House?

Perhaps if she'd disciplined Pevey earlier, or hired more (or better) security for Rainie, not allowed House to take on Rainie's case in the first place, sealed off the third floor, hired private security to protect House at his home… her mind went around it and around it until she'd given herself a beauty of a headache.

But ultimately, it didn't matter what she had or hadn't done, because this was the reality: Greg House had been attacked and nearly killed by Alan Pevey. He was hanging on, but just barely, and he was insisting—as only he could—on putting himself in a situation that might push his fragile health over the edge.

And then what would she do?

*** * * * **

**A**t 8:25 p.m., Mark St. John arrived for work in room 304, surprised to see two beds instead of one. Of course, he'd heard that Greg House had been assaulted, but no one had told him yet that Dr. House would be sharing a room with his patient. As he started to enter the room, the security guard at the door asked for his ID, glanced at it and then sent him to Dr. Cuddy's office.

When he got to Cuddy's office on the fifth floor, he was ushered in. Dr. Cuddy motioned for him to have a seat across from her at the desk.

"Mark, you've been here a long time," she began.

Am I about to be fired, he wondered, beginning to get anxious. Did I do something wrong? He waited for her to continue.

"As you probably know, we've had some difficulty the past few days with the people who have been charged with Rainie Adler's care. And now, Dr. House's convalescence will be part of that responsibility as well. I can't allow anything more to happen to that man. He's been through enough.

"I want your personal assurance that nothing—_nothing_—will keep you from doing your duty. I want those two cared for and protected."

Mark breathed a sigh of relief.

"Dr. Cuddy," he said, looking her directly in the eye, "I went into medicine because helping other people is what matters most to me. I've heard some gossip that one of Ms. Adler's nurses was careless and the other allowed herself to be bribed. I'll do my best not to be careless, and, frankly, no amount of money could keep me from caring for these two ill-treated people. I agree—they've been through enough. They deserve the best."

Cuddy breathed more easily. They shook hands.


	24. Chapter 24: Nightmares Just Nightmares

**Chapter 24**

Nightmares. Just Nightmares.

_**H**__e lay crumpled, as they'd left him, bleeding into the dirt. His face ached from where they had smashed it into the ground, and his right side throbbed with pain from where they had kicked him with their boots. They would be back in a minute, so he had very little time in which to prepare himself for the next onslaught. He'd run if he could, but since he couldn't run, all he could do was wait._

_It would be so much easier to just slip away, to quit struggling, to just die. But that wasn't an option for him. Life, even an agonized, terrorized life like this, was the only choice he had allowed himself. _

_Oh, no. Here they come again. He held his breath and tried to get ready. Not that you could ever be ready. The pain was always sudden, always overwhelming, always devastating. He groaned as he saw the foot headed toward his face._

_Once, I was a doctor, he thought as he slowly passed out. _

_It was almost impossible to breathe, the pain was so great. There was blood soaking into the ground, and laughter in the distance. Gingerly, she tried to get up, the noise in her skull pounding like a jackhammer. No, that wasn't going to work. Maybe she'd just lie still and hope they didn't come back for a while._

_Thump thump thump went her head. Thump thump thump went the boots as they drew closer. No… please no…!_

_What was it like before this? She could barely remember. She seemed to recall a time when she was a journalist, when she explored the mysteries of the human psyche and used her creativity to illuminate life for her readers. Now, angry laughter and constant pain occupied her entire existence. There was no time to analyze human behavior; she was too busy seeing it close up._

_Once I was a writer, she thought as she lost consciousness._

*** * * ***

**M**ark St. John looked up when he heard a low noise. Not good, he thought. This is what we were afraid of. Somebody's having a nightmare. He got up and slipped between the two beds, touching his right hand to Rainie's neck and then his left to House's, checking pulses. Both pulses were fast, and the two patients were breathing rapidly and shallowly.

At about the same time, his patients began to moan. He glanced to his right to see Rainie begin to move around, her face expressing pain and suffering. On his left, House thrust his head back against the pillow, contorting his features in distress. The sudden movement caused him pain, and a grunt escaped him. At just that moment, Rainie whimpered softly.

Both of them? Better get help. He buzzed the nurse's station. Almost instantly, a very young brunette nurse, Kate Marcus, appeared at the door, sliding it open and stepping in. He held his finger to his lips to remind her to stay quiet. She glided across the floor noiselessly.

"What is it?" she whispered.

"Nightmares," he replied. "Both of them. Thought I'd better be ready in case of a problem."

She nodded, staring at the two broken bodies and taking a deep breath. Not long out of nursing school, she hadn't faced many serious injuries before, much less anything like this; it was hard not to stare, not to think about what could have caused marks like those.

"If they both need help at the same time, I'll handle him; you take her. Got it?"

She nodded again and waited at the foot of Rainie's bed.

He gently stroked Rainie's arm with his right hand, and tried to do the same for House with his left, but House flung his arm away.

"Sh-sh-sh… he crooned. "It's just a dream… Shhhhh… It's not real… Settle down… It'll be okay."

He tried again with House, this time approaching him more slowly and more gently. House allowed Mark's hand to stay put, but remained extremely agitated.

"Come on… no one's going to hurt you… it's just your subconscious."

He motioned for Kate to go to the other side of Rainie's bed. Could she touch that hand? Her own feelings bubbling up, Kate gingerly took Rainie's left hand in her own and began to stroke it. It didn't even feel like a hand, she thought, sickened, fighting a desire to gag.

Rather than settling Rainie down, Kate's touch seemed to disturb her. She began to move about, whimpering louder.

Mark turned his full attention to House, who continued to flail around and moan. This wasn't good, he thought. We seem to be making it worse. Perhaps we should both step away.

He stepped back and whispered for Kate to do the same. It didn't seem to make any difference. The patients' agitation continued whether the nurses were there or not. Both of them were shivering, whether with cold or fear Mark wasn't sure.

Mark quickly paged Dr. Liu.

*** * * * **

**I**n her sleep, Jacey Liu heard beeping. Suddenly very much awake, she grabbed her pager. "Room 304. Now," read the screen. She grasped the pair of jeans and t-shirt draped across a chair next to her bed, and ran into the bathroom. Less than five minutes later, she was on her way.

By the time she arrived and got through security, another ten minutes had passed. Anything could happen in fifteen minutes, she thought as she raced toward room 304.

Nothing out of the ordinary could be heard from outside the room, so perhaps everything was okay. Sliding open the door, the volume increased and she heard soft cries. The lights were low, so it took a moment to see what was happening.

Mark and Kate looked up as Jacey came through the door. The last fifteen minutes had been harrowing, with both patients continuing to plunge into all-out nightmares, shivering and shaking and making guttural noises of pain and anxiety. They'd gulped air and cried out, neither of them waking up or waking the other.

Mark had told Kate to follow his lead as he gently stroked the good side of House's face and body, trying to soothe him, as Kate did the same for Rainie.

If Wilson had been there, he'd have told them there was no point. House was way past the stage where you could intercept his nightmare; you'd just have to ride it out.

As she watched from the doorway and let her eyes acclimate to the darkness, Jacey was planning ahead. Might be time to consider putting them both on clonidine, she thought. Over time, it should help reduce the nightmares and startle reactions. She made a mental note to look at their other medications to check for possible drug interactions.

In the meantime, a crisis was bubbling.

In order to be able to get at his patients, Mark had dropped the inside bed rails on both hospital beds. As Jacey approached, Rainie twisted toward House's bed, flinging her arm out and hitting him hard in the face with a loud _smack_.

The two nurses and the psychiatrist froze.

The impact of the blow woke Rainie up. She found herself contorted in the bed, with her hand smarting. She saw it lying near House's face, which was developing a red mark where she had struck him.

Stunned, House recoiled, groaning with pain. Still asleep, he lashed out with his left arm, waving it around his head as if to ward off further blows, then attempting to curl up, crying out in pain as he did so.

"_Ohhh, no_…!" Rainie wailed as she realized what she had done. Somehow, the sound of her voice got through to House and he began to rouse, his eyelids fluttering as he drifted toward consciousness.

"No!" he yelled suddenly, startling Rainie, who began to cry. He took in a big breath, and his unseeing eyes opened wide with fear and anger. "No…! Stop…! No more!" As consciousness overtook him, he looked around, frightened, until his eyes lit on Rainie, who was now curled up and whimpering. Breathing heavily, he softened slightly when he saw her.

"I… I'm sorry," she sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"

Gasping for air, his eyes darting around again, House said nothing, his face altered by pain and torment as he struggled to leave the dream behind and reenter the real world.

Rainie looked at him, at the red mark she'd made on his face.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry!" she cried again, curling in on herself.

He laid his head back on the pillow with a grimace and stared at the ceiling, still breathing heavily. After a few more deep breaths, he looked over at his patient lying devastated next to him.

It had all happened so fast, Jacey was still standing just a few paces into the room. She approached the two.

"Greg… Greg? Are you okay?" she asked.

His shocked blue eyes finally met hers levelly, the right one merely a slit in the purple lid, and he nodded slowly. One more deep breath.

His voice barely audible, he whispered, "Push the beds together."

The nurses looked at Jacey questioningly.

"Do it," said Jacey, after a moment's hesitation.

Kate nudged Rainie's bed while Mark pushed House's until the two beds bumped.

With an exquisite effort and not a few grunts, House rolled onto his left side toward Rainie, who was still crying and shivering.

The advantage I've got, he thought, is that I've been through this so many times. It's still new to her. As the latest nightmare began to recede from his memory, he could still feel a few tears tracing paths down his cheeks, running past the stinging spot where Rainie's hand had marked him.

They were now lying face to face.

"Leave the room," he said in Jacey's general direction. "Leave us alone."

"But Greg…" she began.

"Leave. Us. Alone," he said, enunciating each word as distinctly as he could. "Now."

"All right, Greg," said Jacey, reluctantly, "but we'll be right outside if you need us." The three left the room, sliding the glass door shut behind them. Jacey stood outside and watched from the other side of the glass.

Gritting his teeth and breathing around the pain, House looked intently at Rainie.

Instinctively, he reached toward her with his right arm, but the bandaging and the soreness in his shoulder and elbow were too much. "_Uuuuuuh ohhhh_," he moaned, his breath hitching as he shifted his position and tried to scoot closer to her. When she heard him cry out, her weeping increased.

"Rainie," he said, his voice barely audible.

There was no response.

"Rainie," he repeated.

Her crying slowed and she peeked at him fearfully through wet eyelashes.

"Nightmares," he said. "Just nightmares."

She nodded.

"Come here."

She looked puzzled.

"I tried, but I can't move any closer," he said, gently. "You'll have to come closer to me."

With infinite care, she inched closer, still not touching him.

"Come on," he murmured, sliding his left arm beneath her waist and drawing her right up next to him, her body now mostly on his bed.

She looked up at his tear-stained face anxiously. "I'm sorry," she said again.

"I know," he replied. "Doesn't matter."

With that, she began to cry again, this time out of relief.

Biting his lower lip until his upper incisors broke the skin, drawing a tiny drop of blood; he fought against the pain in his right shoulder to grapple with her blanket and pull it up around her.

When she saw what he had done, she adjusted his blanket and nestled against his good left shoulder, finding comfort in the warmth of his body and the security of his arm around her. Her breathing slowing, she sighed and her eyes closed.

He let out his breath and closed his eyes.

Ten minutes later, after she hadn't seen any movement in a while, Jacey slid open the door to find her patients cuddled together sound asleep.

*** * * * **

**W**hen Wilson arrived early the next morning, he passed by the security guard at the door, and slipped quietly into room 304.

At first, slightly panicked, he thought one of the beds was missing, along with its patient, until he realized that the two patients were wrapped up together, huddled beneath two blankets on the two beds pushed together.

House lay back on the pillow, his eyes closed, his broken right arm at his side and his head bent so that his undamaged left cheek rested on Rainie's forehead while he exhaled a low growl. His left arm circled her shoulders. Rainie was asleep curled up at his side, her face buried on House's left shoulder, her left hand lying on his chest.

Well, I'll be damned, thought Wilson as he turned and left the room.


	25. Chapter 25: A Visit From the FBI

**Chapter 25**

A Visit From the FBI

"**Y**ou're kidding me," said Cuddy, although she knew he wasn't.

"Not at all," said Wilson. "According to Jacey, they had simultaneous nightmares, and the nurses couldn't bring either one of them out of it until Rainie accidentally hit House in the face."

Cuddy cringed at the thought. "Oh, my god. Is he okay?" she asked anxiously.

"He's fine. Apparently, once he woke up, he insisted that they move the beds together and leave the room. We may never know exactly what happened in there, but I can tell you what I saw—the two of them holding each other tightly and sleeping peacefully."

A sudden knock at the door startled her. She looked up to see Joe Roberts coming in. Shaking her head slightly at Wilson as she refocused her thoughts, she extended her hand to Roberts.

"Joe, good to see you," she said.

"Dr. Cuddy. Dr. Wilson," said Roberts. "I was hoping to talk to Dr. House, if he's up to it."

"Not sure," said Cuddy. "Let me check." She buzzed her assistant. "Could you check with the nurse in room 304 and tell me if Dr. House is okay to have a visitor? If House asks, it's Joe Roberts."

"What's up?" asked Wilson, offering Roberts the other chair.

"Mostly, I just wanted to check in on him," said Roberts. "I can't help but feel this is our fault somehow, that we should have known Pevey was there or been able to get in sooner, before so much damage was done."

I know the feeling, thought Cuddy.

"I really need to see for myself, to know he's going to be okay. The last three years of my life have been bound up in House's case, and I… well, to be honest, I haven't been able to sleep much worrying about how this is going to affect him."

"You said 'mostly,'" Cuddy pointed out. "Why else do you want to see him?"

"Much as I'd like to avoid it, I ought to let him know that Pevey's arraignment is coming up soon. We'll need to talk about the trial."

Cuddy nodded. Wilson just stared at the floor, remembering the last time House had been brought into a courtroom. Of course, that was more than a year ago, and House had still been pretty out of it. But he'd never forget finding House wedged into a corner, shaking with terror as the courtroom descended into chaos.

"Yes…?" said Cuddy, answering the buzz of her phone. "Okay, I'll tell him. Thanks."

Turning to Roberts, she said, "You're good to go. House is expecting you. Check in with the security guards on the third floor. Would you like one of us to go with you? He tires very easily and it might help to have one of us keeping an eye on how he's doing."

Roberts agreed that might be a good idea.

Realizing she was going to have to see him sooner or later, Cuddy volunteered. Wilson bowed out, saying he really needed to get some work done.

Silently, Cuddy and Roberts rode down the two flights in the elevator. As they approached the guard at the door of 304, Cuddy gave her okay to allow Roberts into the room.

The two beds were still side by side, but now both patients were awake and sitting up. A rolling tray was hovering over Rainie's lap, and she was attempting to spear some scrambled eggs with her fork, not an easy task for someone whose hands were as mangled as hers, even with the stress-free grip attached to the fork. When the door opened, she looked up, startled.

House, who was staring at the muted television, glanced at her, and put out his left hand to pat her arm reassuringly.

"Cheese it. It's the cops," he said, his left eye displaying a hint of a twinkle, almost like the House of old. "Stash the dope. Or is it dope the stash? I always get those mixed up."

Her mouth smiled tentatively; her eyes continued to look wary.

"Really. It's just the boss lady and the FBI. Hi, Cuddy… Roberts."

"Hi, Dr. House. Ms. Adler. It's good to see you both." No one had mentioned to him that they were sharing a room—and apparently a bed—but if the FBI had taught Roberts anything, it was how to keep his emotions from showing on his face.

Rainie dropped her head and looked up at them through her lashes. With another reassuring pat from House, she returned to her struggle with the eggs.

The two pulled chairs up to House's side of what had become, in essence, a double bed. Unfortunately, this was his injured side, which made it upsetting for them to look at and difficult for him, since he couldn't really see them through his swollen right eye.

Scowling, House attempted unsuccessfully to shift his position and turn his head in their direction. "_Urggh!_" he grunted.

"Here, let me help you," said Cuddy, jumping to her feet and reaching out toward him.

Her sudden movement surprised him, setting off a Rube Goldberg chain reaction. House flinched, his good left arm flying up toward his head for protection, his elbow knocking Rainie's tray along the way. Her plate of scrambled eggs flew off the tray with a clatter and onto the floor on the other side of the bed, bits of egg raining down on her side of the bed, some landing in her hair. The noise startled Rainie in turn, causing her to recoil and cry out. She tossed her fork up in the air as she grabbed the blanket and dove under it. The fork came crashing down on the tray, and both patients jumped at the sound.

"Oh, my god!" cried Cuddy. "I am _so_ sorry!" She'd taken three quick steps and then stopped herself just in time—she was about to run to the other side of the bed to help with the mess. Taking a deep breath, she stood completely still until House settled down and Rainie came back out from under the blanket.

"I'm such an idiot," said Cuddy.

"Yes," agreed House, "you are." He glanced at Rainie; she seemed to be holding her own.

After an orderly cleaned up the tossed scrambled eggs and brought Rainie another plate and fork, they tried again. This time, Cuddy asked a nurse to help her adjust House's position so he could see them more clearly.

Once he was situated, House tried turning his head a little further in their direction. Nope. Too painful. The exertion and the stress had tired him, and he rested his head back on the pillow, fighting to keep his eyes open.

"Dr. House, I just wanted to check and see how you were doing," said Roberts, deciding he wasn't going to mention Pevey after all.

"So you brought Cuddy the Wonder Klutz with you just to liven things up?"

House heard a small titter near his left ear. He looked over with his good eye and, out of the corner of it saw Rainie stifling a laugh. Very good, he thought. Very good indeed.

Cuddy hung her head. "What can I say?" she asked. "You don't get to be the dean of medicine because of your bedside manner. You get to be dean of medicine because you're a bulldozer."

"You must do your job awfully well, then," said House. He heard another titter in his left ear.

"Well, I think we've given you enough excitement for one day, Dr. House," said Roberts, rising slowly. He reached out as if to shake House's hand, realizing as his hand was in midair that House couldn't possibly shake hands—his right arm was incapacitated. Instead, Roberts carefully bypassed House's right side and softly patted him on the left arm. "Good to see you again. I'll be back soon."

House nodded, suddenly relieved they were leaving. As the door closed, so did his eyes.


	26. Chapter 26: House Confesses

**Chapter 26**

House Confesses…

**H**e woke up ninety minutes later to find Rainie finally finishing her breakfast, determined to master once again the delicate art of using utensils. She hadn't exactly been neat about it—there were flecks of egg scattered around the blanket—but she'd managed.

She looked over at him when she heard him move. "Feel better?" she asked, softly.

He nodded, a little astounded by how much she'd come to trust him. Very gently she laid her right hand on his left and patted it. Somehow, he wasn't comforted by her gesture, because he knew what he had to do.

Now's as good a time as any, he thought. I need to get this over with.

Ever since Wilson had told him about her, House hadn't been able to rid himself of a powerful, consuming guilt about what had happened to her on his account. He desperately wished… well, what did he wish? That she could have been spared, that no one else should have had to suffer because of him. _First, do no harm._

Because of his own experiences, it wasn't difficult for him to picture the kind of treatment the petite woman next to him had undergone. He could hear the voices terrorizing her, laughing as they hurt her, as they threatened. He could see strong arms holding her down, hands using scalpels to slice into the most sensitive areas of her arms, the bottoms of her feet, her face, bringing about the maximum amount of pain without endangering her life. Pinioning her so she couldn't struggle as they raped her, as they beat her, as they broke her bones, and then leaving her cold and uncared for in her own filth.

The constant dread, the unbearable and unexpected pain—he knew it far too well. And it was his fault she'd suffered through it. It was his fault her husband was dead, and her child, that her life was ruined. His fault.

As his heart began to race, he grimly shook away the thoughts and the terror they conjured up, and girded himself.

"Rainie…" he began, uncertainly. "We need to talk."

Her eyelids flickered as she tried to prepare herself for what she clearly expected to be bad news. He saw the tension gather in her face and shoulders, and noticed that she'd begun to chew nervously on her lower lip.

Am I going to undo everything by telling her? Will she be able to trust me after this, knowing I'm the cause of her suffering and her loss? Will she be able to forgive me for what I've done to her life?

Probably not, he decided. But she needs to know.

With difficulty, he raised his head and stared at the ceiling. Okay, let's do it.

"I'm Greg House," he whispered, as if embarrassed. "I'm the reason you… you had to go through… all this."

She took in a quick breath, and her eyelids began to blink rapidly as she thought about it. Of course. Greg. How stupid of her. That's why he looked familiar, and yet not quite. She should have figured it out. Must be the drugs. No wonder he appeared to know just what she was feeling—it's because he'd had those same feelings himself. And those hands.

It seemed so obvious all of a sudden.

She said nothing for a long time.

He held his breath.

"I know," she said, finally, looking down. "I'm sorry."

_Sorry? Sorry for what? Sorry that I'm Greg House? Well, I'm sorry about that, too. What could she have to be sorry for? It's my fault she's here. I'm the one who's sorry. Bitterly, dreadfully, eternally sorry. _

He glanced at her, unable to read her face.

"Why?" he whispered, now riveted on her eyes. "Why sorry?"

She drew a deep breath. Looking down at the bed, she couldn't meet his gaze.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't help you," she murmured at last. "You'll never know how incredibly hard I tried. I'm so very sorry I couldn't save you."

His throat constricted. He exhaled a long breath, and laid his head back on the pillow closing his eyes and feeling them sting as teardrops spilled onto his face. His right eye throbbed as he tried to squeeze back the tears, but he couldn't stop them. A rumbling, hiccupy sob escaped him, then another. And another.

She's sorry she couldn't help _me_, he thought, as emotion overtook his reason. She tried to save me—she's the only one who actually tried to save me—and all it got her was… what I got. And yet, she's sorry.

He leaned forward on the bed, bending way over, covering his mouth in an attempt to stifle himself. From somewhere far away inside him, a long, low wail burbled up to the surface and escaped into the room.

The security guard turned his head and looked through the glass door.

"Hey! Nurse!" he called, as he rose to his feet. "Something's wrong!"

Two nurses came running. Sliding open the door to 304, they ran in quickly, only then reminding themselves that their instructions were to move slowly and quietly.

They saw Rainie Adler leaning over, cradling Gregory House's head in her lap as she rubbed his back with her right hand. His shoulders heaved while muffled keening emerged into the room.

Unsure of what to do, the nurses looked at each other. Neither of them had ever heard noises like this before.

Finally, one of them came to her senses, remembering their instructions to call Jacey Liu if anything came up. Not wanting to create a disturbance, they stepped back outside and paged Jacey, who was in her office two floors above, and then they slipped back into the room.

Seemingly within seconds, Jacey entered the room, surveying the situation from the doorway.

At first, all she saw was a pile of blankets, but soon she made out Rainie, hunched very low over House's prone body, his face in her lap. Jacey could clearly hear muted howls of anguish coming from the center of the bed. Between breaths, she heard a crooning sound coming from Rainie, who was stroking his back.

Jacey considering grabbing a sedative, but decided to hold off. The two seemed oblivious to anyone else. She wanted to see how they handled it.

Gasping for breath, House tried to raise his head. Between the crying, the swelling and the bandages, he couldn't seem to lift it. He'd given himself a terrible headache and he felt intensely queasy. The throbbing was extreme. Using his left hand, he pushed off the bed and found himself sitting upright again.

Unable look at Rainie, he was too ashamed of having lost control. But he couldn't stop sobbing either. He let out another deep wail, trying desperately to swallow it but unable to. His chest pounded and he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. He thought he was going to throw up.

He was the doctor; she was the patient. He was supposed to help her, not the other way around.

Or maybe it hadn't helped at all. Maybe he'd just fallen apart.

Gulping in as much air as he could, he tried to calm himself.

Finally, after several long minutes, his crying and his breathing slowed. He stared vacantly toward his feet as he struggled to pull himself together. Something warm and damp dripped down the right side of his face.

After a long time, he spoke.

"You wanted to save me," he said, almost under his breath. "You're sorry you couldn't…" He looked over at her, not quite making eye contact. "You see… I'm sorry I couldn't save you."

The last sentence was said so quietly, Rainie had to strain to hear it. Her heart skipped a beat. No wonder this hit him so hard, she thought. He's felt as responsible for me as I've felt for him. He must have thought I'd resent him when I realized who he was, that I'd blame him. And yet, despite his concerns, he's stayed with me, even coming to be with me when he's been injured himself.

A moment of fear hit her suddenly. She still didn't know how he'd been hurt this time. And, besides, his head was bleeding.

Rainie looked up at him, her eyes moist. Not entirely sure why or how, it was apparent that she had affected House in a fundamental manner. And oddly, her ability to be strong for him had done something very positive for her. Up till now, she'd hated herself for being afraid, for the episodes of terror, for the very natural reaction to her own experiences. Being able to comfort him gave her back a little bit of the woman she used to be—the strong one, the clever one, the one who had that uncanny ability to see through artifice and grasp the truth underneath.

"It's all right," she said. "We'll get through this together."

He continued to stare toward his toes, but she thought she detected a slight, curt nod.

Then, in a very small voice, she whispered something Jacey couldn't hear.

But House heard it.

"No one will _ever_ understand you as well as I do," she murmured. And no one will ever understand me like you do, she added to herself.

Biting back another sob, he nodded more boldly this time, reaching out toward her with his left arm. She tucked herself up next to him and wiped away his remaining tears with her left hand, noticing some blood mixed in with the tears. They leaned back against the pillows. He closed his eyes, and shortly thereafter she did the same.

Neither of them ever noticed Jacey standing there, syringe in hand.

Fascinating, she thought. Utterly fascinating.

As much as she hated to disturb them again, she knew he needed to be checked out. Even in the low light of the room, she could see blood on his face. Stopping at the nurses' station on her way out, she paged Karen Langley.


	27. Chapter 27: Blood on the Blanket

**Chapter 27**

Blood On the Blanket

**E**arly in the afternoon, Chase knocked on Wilson's door. There was no answer, so he opened the door and peeked inside. Nobody home. Seeing a small notepad on the desk, Chase scribbled a few words and left.

When Wilson returned fifteen minutes later, he found Chase's scrawl. _Any chance we can see House? Chase_. For the first time in days, Wilson realized, a couple of hours had passed and he hadn't thought too much about House and how he was doing.

Five minutes after that, Wilson strolled into the Diagnostics conference room. Foreman was pontificating at the whiteboard, Chase sat at the table looking bored and Devi had her back to the door as she fixed a cup of coffee.

"Got your message, Chase," said Wilson.

Chase looked up, his eyes hopeful.

"I'm not sure it's a good idea just yet, at least not all three of you. He tires so easily and he had a rough night."

Chase looked deflated.

"Is everything okay?" Devi asked, turning to look at Wilson, worry apparent on her face.

She's a decent person, thought Wilson. I like her a lot.

"Oh, yes. Just some nightmares—both of them had them, in fact. Nothing major, but it did disrupt their sleep."

"Other than that, how's he doing?" asked Foreman as he left the whiteboard and sat down at the table.

How's he doing? There was no good answer for that question. On his best days, even before this latest crisis, House did poorly. He rarely slept through the night, his fragile mind tormented by the horrific dreams that continued to disrupt his sleep, which in turn exhausted the frail body, already wracked by more pain than Wilson could begin to imagine. Knowing in detail exactly the injuries House was dealing with, Wilson couldn't comprehend how House ever got through a day without crying or shrieking in agony. And yet, somehow, he did.

Even more than before, House kept things to himself. The House of old would have bitched and moaned and made jokes and played the cripple card when it suited him. New House seldom mentioned how he felt, except at home, and then only when prompted by Wilson or Linda.

Before the last couple of weeks had shaken things up, he and Wilson had settled into a somewhat comfortable routine. Now, especially with this new physical assault, it was anyone's guess what would happen.

His mind came back to the question. How's he doing? Short answer: better. Comparatively, House was so much better off than he'd been a year ago, when the slightest thing shook his delicate sense of security. At least now, he could face unexpected noises without screaming and, thanks to several surgeries, he was regaining some strength in his devastated body. The frightening flashbacks had tapered off, those horrifying moments when House, wide awake but completely unaware of his actions, had cowered from unseen tormentors or screamed himself hoarse with rage.

For the last two years, James Wilson had willingly put House's needs ahead of his own, as his shattered friend clawed his way back toward life. It took all his own physical and emotional energy to care for House, and he considered it a privilege. At least he thought he did. Sometimes, when he was extremely tired, he allowed himself to remember the life he'd had before… _before_… and to miss it. He missed flirting (and sex), he missed casual conversation with colleagues, going to museums and out to eat, and he really missed the feeling of being completely rested. Most of all he desperately missed his friend, the House who used to be.

"Dr. Wilson? _Dr. Wilson?_"

With a start, Wilson pulled himself back to the present to find himself looking at Foreman and not quite remembering the question.

"Huh? What?"

"I _said_, how's he doing?"

"Oh, sorry," said Wilson, shoving the unwelcome thoughts from his mind. "Not too bad. Looks awful, as I'm sure you can imagine, but considering that we thought he probably wouldn't survive at all, much less with any brain function, he's doing remarkably well. We'll keep watching closely for a few more days…"

He looked down, not really wanting to voice this thought. "…well, you know. It's still possible he might not make it. Head injuries are so tricky."

After a moment, he picked up steam again. "He is, of course, in a lot of pain." Wilson amended that. "I mean, more pain than usual. He can barely move his right side at all, although being the stubborn ass he is, he keeps trying. Just hope he doesn't make things worse."

"How's he behaving?" asked Chase. "He's never been the best patient."

You'd be surprised, thought Wilson. You didn't know him back then. He wasn't always so difficult. But when he lay there for four days crying out in pain, waiting for someone else to diagnose his leg, ultimately doing it himself when it was far too late, he lost what little confidence he ever had that anyone besides himself was competent to handle things.

But that's not what he said.

What he said was: "He's okay. Probably too tired to give anyone much in the way of grief. I'm sure once he's feeling better, he'll be his old cantankerous self."

Although, now that Wilson thought about it, he hadn't been all that cantankerous lately.

"So, in answer to your question, I'd rather not take all three of you in to see him at once. If you'd like to go one at a time, I'll try to arrange it."

Devi demurred, saying she'd be glad to wait until he felt better. Foreman, too, stepped back, unwilling to revisit the feelings he'd had a year back, when he and Chase first saw House, frail and shaking. But Chase wanted to see for himself that House was improving.

"Let's go take a look and see if he's awake," offered Wilson, heading toward the door.

As they approached the room, Chase followed a few steps behind Wilson, who noted approvingly that the blinds on the windows remained closed. Neither of these two needed gawkers trying to sneak a peek.

The security guard stopped them, checking ID and then nodding his okay. They slid the glass door open.

House and Rainie were both awake, propped up next to each other on one big bed, their hands touching on top of the blanket. He was turned slightly toward her and the two were conversing quietly, his left eye looking at her attentively, the other, a brilliant Maxfield Parrish shade of indigo, still nearly shut. He looked drained, and his good eye was red and puffy.

"…way they look at you," he was saying as they entered the room. He spoke so softly they missed a few words. "For me, dealing… reactions is one of the hardest…"

She nodded, keeping her eyes fixed on his face. As she heard footsteps, she started and glanced toward the door apprehensively, pulling away from the sound and leaning in toward House.

He willed her eyes back to him. "Friends," he said, although he hadn't appeared to see them enter the room.

The whole situation caught Chase up short. For starters, he'd never realized before that House considered him a friend. He couldn't help noticing that the bandage around the top of House's head looked as if it had been recently changed, as did the one on his right shoulder, and he thought he detected a few flecks of blood on the blanket.

On each side of the room were bouquets of flowers, cards still attached, more on House's side than Rainie's. Probably because his injuries were more recent and had been made more public, Chase surmised. Unless they were all Rainie's and just took up too much space for her side of the room. Yes, that was probably it.

Both patients were hooked up to monitors, and had IVs next to their respective sides of the bed. Or was it beds? Yes, two beds. It had to be. PPTH had no double beds, although the singles were fairly large.

Somehow, seeing House and Rainie share such close proximity shook his sense of correctness—not as in societal propriety or decorum—but as in his concept of what kind of man he believed House to be. The House he knew kept everyone at arm's length, avoided physical contact whenever possible and didn't have intimate conversations with anyone.

Chase stood at the end of the beds as Wilson went over and sat down in a chair on House's right side. It was clear that House's injuries were severe and yet, Chase was relieved to realize, he seemed to be functioning.

"Chase," said House.

"Yes?"

"This is Rainie Adler. Rainie, this is Dr. Chase from my department."

House was still having some difficulty enunciating clearly, but Chase had no trouble understanding his boss.

If he was honest with himself, Chase would have to admit that he found it unsettling to look at the two of them together. Over the past few months, he'd slowly gotten used to seeing House as he was now. He no longer reacted to the scars and other obvious aftereffects of his ordeal, but was able to deal with the man himself.

Somehow, though, seeing the same kinds of injuries all over again on this tiny woman he didn't know moved Chase deeply. Of course, he had met her before, when she was interviewing everyone connected with House, but he barely remembered her from then. Everything connected with that time was hazy and distorted in his memory.

Now, he found himself back to square one—trying not to stare. Just like House's wrists, hers were banded with scars from where she had been bound and struggled to break free. Further up her arms, he could see burn marks and gouges in the skin intertwined with the other scars. On up her neck and onto her face, the scars wended their painful way. A couple were so close to the jugular that, he realized with a shock, they must have brought her close to death—which, under the circumstances, could only have been a relief—until the bleeding was stopped and she was yanked back to her world of pain.

Wincing with empathy, he glanced over at House, and for the first time in several months really saw his injuries again, almost as if he'd never noticed them before. Injuries House had chosen to suffer in order to save seven lives, including his own. And the one he'd been unable to save, Cameron's.

Realizing he was verging being incredibly rude, Chase lowered his gaze.

Just then, the door slid open and Karen Langley came into the room.

"Excuse me, James," she said as she squeezed past Wilson to get to House's monitors. Wilson looked startled.

House laid his head back passively on the pillow; Rainie raised herself up to watch what was happening. Karen leaned over to examine the bandages on his head.

"It's looking a little better," said Karen. "I don't think you've done yourself too much harm, even with all that exertion. You're lucky. From now on, when I tell you to lie still, lie still, you hear me?"

House nodded slightly. Rainie looked relieved. She gently stroked his arm.

"Still feeling queasy?"

"A little. Not like before."

"That's good news. I'm not going to have you kicking off because you're too stupid to keep from moving around. How's the pain level? Give me a rating—just give me one on the head and also on the shoulder. I don't need the detailed analysis."

Wilson and Chase looked at each other. _What?_ Chase seemed to be asking. _Beats me_, shrugged Wilson nonverbally.

If Wilson didn't know what was happening, then the world had gone completely mad, thought Chase. He couldn't get his head around it—House in bed with a patient, actually communicating with her, and allowing her to touch him _and_ something's happened that Wilson knows nothing about.

"Let's say a seven for the head. Oh, hell, say a seven for the shoulder, too."

"That's definitely higher than it was before, don't you think? Wasn't it a six?" asked Langley.

House closed his eyes and nodded. "Yep. It's higher," he said. "Not surprising, though. Could have been much worse." Feeling a sudden pang, he pinched his eyes shut and clenched his jaw, which made the pain in his face twinge.

Wilson, who by this time was more than a little concerned, spoke up. "What's happened here?"

Karen Langley looked at House.

"Go ahead," he said in a monotone. "I've given up on the idea of having any privacy."

"Dr. House had… a bad bout earlier, and it caused a few problems with his head and shoulder," she said noncommittally. "But everything's under control now."

She and House exchanged a quick glance. _Thanks_, he seemed to be saying. _Thanks for keeping my secret._

Far from satisfied, Wilson realized that's all he was going to get for now.

"Is it enough worse to increase your pain meds?" Langley asked.

"Dunno. Maybe," replied House. "So far so good, I think. Except for the headache. Tell the nurses they can up it later on if I need more."

"No, I think I'll tweak it a little now, just in case. And Jacey and I will be back later, just to make sure we don't have any problems."

This was new, thought Chase. House turning down pain meds? But then he realized he actually had very little idea what kind of pain regimen House had been on the last year.

Lying back against the pillow, his boss looked pale. As the increased pain meds reached his system, his tense body relaxed and his eyes started to close. Rainie Adler stretched out next to him. She looked up and gently brushed her hand against his cheek. He opened his eyes wearily and smiled a tight smile at her, lightly touching her hair with his left hand before wrapping his left arm around her. Then his eyes closed.

Chase was beyond being surprised. He turned to leave. Wilson and Langley followed him out of the room.

"What the hell was that all about?" asked Wilson as soon as they were clear of the door.

"I might as well tell you, because it's going to come up at today's meeting. Which is in… oh, lord, we're due there now. I'll fill you in then. Come on."

Leaving Chase standing befuddled in the hall, they tore off for the elevator.

*** * * * **

**A**s the team members took their seats, Jacey Liu and Karen Langley spoke quietly to Naveen Ajunta.

He began Wednesday's meeting by turning it over to his colleagues. "We've had some developments in the last day you need to know about," he said, "so Jacey and Karen will give us the update."

Wilson, who was still as much in the dark as before, sat tensely at one end of the table.

"It's actually good news," said Jacey. "It may not sound like it at first, but there's been some real progress with both of our patients."

Without compromising House's privacy too much, she described the dual nightmares and the bond that was developing between the patients as a result. She lightly glossed over what she knew of the most recent events. She was pretty sure House wouldn't want a roomful of people to know what she'd seen, especially since she had a feeling he hadn't known she was there.

"When I entered the room, he was experiencing some strong feelings, and she was comforting him," she said, expressing herself carefully. "I don't know what the trigger was. Only the two of them know that, but it's obvious that they have been able to help each other emotionally. Earlier this morning, he was comforting her; later on, she was comforting him.

"I don't believe there's a precedent for anything like this, so from my standpoint, of course, it's fascinating to observe. By virtue of their shared experiences, these two are creating a close connection. So far, it seems to be very healthy for both of them. And our worries about the PTSD seem to be unfounded. Quite the contrary, in fact. Their emotional upsets seem to be bringing them closer together."

As she was speaking, Jacey decided to avoid mentioning House's request to move the beds together. It seemed too personal somehow, and it wasn't crucial information. At least, she didn't think it was.

Wilson noticed, though. Hmmm, he thought. That's interesting. I wonder what else she isn't saying.

For him, the bed thing was one of the more fascinating aspects of the last day. When House had initially asked to be the lead on Rainie's case, Wilson had had no doubt of House's ability to deal with the medicine; it was the emotional side he was concerned about.

Since his release, House had actively avoided therapy or any other help for his fragile emotional condition. And yet House's choices and behavior about Rainie's emotional health had been startlingly correct.

House had always been unpredictable, but in predictable ways. Now he was unpredictable in completely _un_predictable ways…

Jacey asked for questions.

"Could you explain a little more?" asked physical therapist Jacob Yuen. "I get that they're developing a bond, which is good, I guess. What I don't get is how."

"I'm not entirely sure myself," admitted Jacey. "And frankly, I think the details of it are their business, not ours. Just because I happen to be in the room and overhear something doesn't mean it doesn't fall under doctor-patient privilege."

"Got it," said Yuen. "I guess we all feel emotionally involved with these two, and want to understand what's happening."

"Of course you do," said Jacey, "but both of these people are my patients. I'd really prefer not to go into the details, if you don't mind."

"Let's move onto the physical aspects," interjected Karen Langley, intentionally changing the subject. "Rainie seems to be doing exceptionally well. Her energy level is way up, she's off the IV except for pain meds, has begun feeding herself, and she's become more mobile with less pain. I think it's time to upgrade her condition.

"House, on the other hand—although he's doing remarkably well—had a little setback this morning. As a result of his… flare-up, he moved around too much, re-injuring his head and shoulder. It's nothing too major—at least I hope not—but it caused a bleed and I had to replace his bandages. In addition, the pain is somewhat worse and I've upped his pain meds for the time being. When I left them a few minutes ago, he was resting. I'm not sure how comfortably. Jacey and I will go back after this to check his mental status."

After another ninety minutes, Ajunta wrapped up the meeting by giving the physical therapists the okay to increase their visits to Rainie, and to take a look at House to see if he was ready to start PT.

Wilson still hadn't gotten his answer from Karen Langley, and he was beginning to think he wasn't going to.

He trailed after her and Jacey back to room 304.

_Page 7 of 7_


	28. Chapter 28: Something From Childhood

**Chapter 28**

Something From Your Childhood…

**O**rthopedist Karen Langley roused House, who was sleeping lightly. Rainie was moaning quietly as she slept next to him, more in her bed now than his, her body turned toward him. Langley would keep an eye on House's physical condition while Jacey Liu administered the mental status test.

"Okay. Where are you? What's the date?" Jacey asked the questions matter-of-factly.

House looked around with his good eye.

"PPTH. Room 304. Not sure about the date—should be somewhere around the 25th."

"Good. Now, who's this?" She jotted down some notes on a clipboard and pointed to Wilson, who was standing next to her.

"The Good Witch of the North," he said.

Wilson smiled, pleased that House was verbal enough—and quick enough—to make jokes.

"What's thirteen plus eight?"

"Math? You didn't tell me math was involved."

She looked at him without comment.

"Okay, be that way." He paused. "Twenty-one."

"Fine. Now, I'm going to give you a list of words and I want you to repeat them back to me. Try to remember them, because I'm going to ask you again later."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know the drill. Just give me the list."

"Car. Man. Blue. Picture. Box. Sofa. Toes. Elephant. Flower."

He took a breath and glared at her. He left side hurt just under his rib cage, where he'd fallen on his crutch. Must be some bruising there.

"Car. Man. Blue. Picture… uh… Box. Toes—no, that's not right. Sofa. Toes. Elephant. Flower. Did you purposely choose words with letters I'm having trouble saying?"

"No, not really. Just worked out that way. Now, tell me about something that happened in the last two days."

House had to think about this. He didn't really want to go into the nightmare scenario or the breakdown with Rainie. And most of the rest of the time he'd been asleep.

"Anything?" she asked.

"I'm thinking," he said crossly. "How about a visit from Roberts and Cuddy the Wonder Klutz?"

Wilson hadn't heard about this, but from the description, he wished he'd been there.

"So what happened?"

House rolled his eyes. Did he have to tell them he'd flinched at her sudden movement and spilled Rainie's eggs? Yep, guess so. It was preferable to describing his emotional fit.

"Grrrr… all right… Cuddy moved suddenly. I knocked Rainie's breakfast off her tray. Eggs went all over."

"How about something from your childhood?"

For some reason, the only thing he could think of was something he was quite sure he didn't want to talk about.

"This is ridiculous," he said instead.

Wilson raised an eyebrow, wondering what House was hiding.

"No, it isn't, and you know it."

"Aw, mom. Do I have to?" Maybe if he stalled enough, he could think of something else.

"Yes, Junior, you do."

Something. Anything but that. But nothing was coming to him.

"If you must know…" He gave her one more chance to change the subject. She wasn't biting.

"Yes, I must."

He glanced at Wilson, who had never heard about this. Then he looked down at the blanket. Finally, bitterly, he spat it out.

"My mother was visiting my aunt Sarah in Trenton," he mumbled. "My dad decided that what an incorrigible youth like me needed was strict discipline, more discipline than he would dare try around Mom. I guess I must have mouthed off to him." And then, almost inaudibly: "He put me in an ice bath."

Wilson winced. He'd always suspected something there.

Jacey Liu didn't show her feelings. Most people remembered things like a birthday party, being in a play at school or getting a puppy. Might as well get in a little talk therapy while she was here.

"Was there more?"

"Yes," he said quietly, looking down. After a pause, he continued. "While I was still wet, he locked me out of the house and made me spend the night outside. I slept in the yard. No blankets, no tent, no sleeping bag. It was a dark, cloudy, windy, moonless—and bitterly cold—night."

Hiding her reaction to this story, Jacey continued. "How old were you?"

House looked down. "I'd just turned six," he muttered.

Shit, thought Wilson. How often did this kind of thing happen to him? John House's words on the phone came back to him. _You know he did something to deserve it. He's never been able to control himself. He's always been a troublemaker. _No wonder he hates his father.

Rainie lay still on the bed, but not asleep. She'd woken up when Jacey started questioning House. She'd considered letting them know she was awake, but not now. Now was not a good time.

She thought back to her own childhood, to her own father's attempts at discipline. His abuse was more mental than physical, but she suspected the cause was similar—an attempt by both fathers to control something they didn't—couldn't—understand.

_What's the matter with you? Why can't you just fit in? Do you have to be so weird? Why can't you just… be normal? _But she couldn't. She couldn't fit in and she couldn't be "normal." Insanely bored in school, she hung out with the artists and the hoods, alternating between fits of creativity and bouts of getting in trouble, sometimes fairly serious trouble, like the time she and a couple of friends were caught breaking into the high school science lab at 1 a.m. They spent the night in jail. The fact that they just wanted to know if you really could pick a lock with a hairpin didn't seem to impress the night court judge.

Her insatiable curiosity and loathing of boredom got her into journalism. Why did people behave the way they did? What stories did they have to tell? What makes one person capable of great good, and another of great evil? What do people strive for? How do they make the most of their lives? And on a personal level, how do you give your own life meaning? Even more to the point, what happens when the child is infinitely more intelligent than the parents? Not as in an "I'm 18 and I know everything and old people are stupid" kind of way, but as in quantifiably, undisputedly more intelligent.

It had taken her years—decades—to figure out that she had value, that in actuality, she was smarter—a lot smarter—than either of her parents. Eventually she'd realized that her father felt threatened by her intelligence and creativity; he had no use for anything that wasn't strictly proscribed by convention. He felt safe within the box of his own limited imagination, and he wanted everyone else to live in that box, too. If you didn't think, look, behave as everyone else did, you were a freak. In his eyes, she was a freak. Nothing she ever did was right. And how could she find meaning in life if she was a freak?

As she got older and more self-assured, she'd felt a little bit sorry for her father. He was trapped in a limited world and he'd never break free of it. She couldn't help the fact that she had been born with considerably better brains than he had, and on some level she empathized with his anger and frustration that she hadn't turned out "normal," like everyone else. Certainly her life would have been easier if she had.

So she made her own meaning, finding other freaks—like-minded bright, creative, interesting friends—and chiseled out a career for herself where she could use her brains and at least some of her talents. Even at the _Times_, she was often brighter than those around her, although her own insecurities led her to believe the opposite. The combination of her intelligence, talent and insecurity was off-putting, and as a result, she didn't have that many close friends.

Eventually, after meeting Jeff in her 30s and giving birth to Evie, she found a measure of peace, both with herself and with her life.

Until she had become obsessed with the case of the world-famous doctor accused of murder. It was just her kind of story. What made someone that talented and well-known snap? How could someone whose profession was based on the idea of "First, do no harm" beat a woman to death for no apparent reason?

As she immersed herself in the story, anomalies began to show up. Rainie Adler didn't like anomalies. They bugged her. She couldn't let them go. And these were pretty major anomalies.

Dr. House's personality, for example. Wildly eccentric and shockingly brilliant, he was, to some, an arrogant jerk who just happened to be good at solving medical puzzles but who had no interest in helping people. But a few of his former patients described a different man, one who gave them moments of intense compassion, illuminating insight and deep, almost overwhelming empathy. Although no one doubted his brilliance, many complained about his behavior, and a few talked about the demons that seemed to stalk him and the pain that consumed him.

The real incongruities came not from his basic personality but from the fact that he changed so dramatically during the year prior to his arrest. He became more and more withdrawn and jumpy, but somehow less irritable. He showed up to work less and less, and when he did, he often had injuries—a bruise here, a broken finger there, all blamed on accidents or fights. He lost a noticeable amount of weight. After a nasty public blowup, he stopped talking to his best friend. He became more quiet, more introverted. His intense blue eyes dulled, which was attributed by many to his drug use, and he seemed tired all the time. And then there was his behavior after the murder. He never actually admitted he'd killed her. He just didn't deny it. Some said he seemed almost relieved to be going to prison.

She puzzled over the mystery of Greg House, couldn't stop thinking about it. Was this someone who was slowly going insane, as had been suggested? Or was there something else?

Late one night, when she couldn't let it go, she sat at her desk, the one right next to Evan Schuster's, methodically building a rickety tower out of paperclips on a magnetic base, staring into space and teasing at the puzzle of Greg House. Behind her, she heard a couple of other reporters talking about that social services case, the one where the foster parents had killed the little girl.

"How could the teachers not notice?" Steve Lantz was saying. "She was losing weight. She kept showing up to school with bruises, and she became more and more withdrawn, but she started every time she heard a loud noise."

Cynthia Alvarado agreed. "She seemed lethargic and her attendance became so irregular. How could they not figure it out?"

Rainie felt as if someone had jolted her brain with electricity. The anomalies suddenly made sense. In fact, they made so much sense she was stunned that she hadn't seen it before. This wasn't a man slowly going crazy. This was a man being systematically abused.

That inspirational, flashing, eureka moment—the moment she had her epiphany about Greg House—forever altered her. In fact, it all but destroyed her.

Not going there, she thought, and yanked herself back to the present.

While she had been wandering down this twisting lane of contemplation, the questions had continued.

"Name the last five presidents."

"Bush Bush Carter Clinton Reagan."

Jacey hesitated. Technically, he was correct. "Uh… yes. Could you give them to me in order?"

"I did give them to you in order. I gave them to you in alphabetical order. If you wanted chronological order, you should have said so. Would you like them in reverse order? Alphabetical, I mean. Reagan Clinton Carter Bush Bush." This was getting annoying.

Wilson laughed. House looked at him and his one good eye seemed to gleam.

Jacey smiled. The fact that he was this quick was actually a very good sign.

"Give me the list again—not the presidents, the other one. Then we'll do a couple more and quit for the day."

House thought about it. He wasn't sure he could do it. Damn.

"Umm… Car. Man. A color—blue. Box. Toes. Elephant. Flower. I missed some—not sure what."

"Close. No cigar," said Jacey, making some notes.

"Now let's see how you process information. Close your eyes and put out your left hand."

House started to do so, closing his eyes. That's odd, he thought, suddenly not sure which was his left hand. Wait. It had to be the one on the side that wasn't bandaged. Otherwise they wouldn't have asked me to do it. He extended his left hand, palm up. His hand shook badly.

"I'm putting something in your hand. See if you can identify it."

She gave him a tiny oblong item that wobbled unsteadily in his trembling hand.

He rolled it around for a moment, feeling with his fingers. "My bestest friend," he said.

Wilson laughed aloud.

Jacey looked confused until Wilson explained.

"He got it. Not just that it was a pill, but that it was Vicodin."

Without warning, House popped the pill into the left side of his mouth and swallowed. Karen Langley looked at him as if he were crazy.

"What's the matter with you?!" she said. "You're on a morphine drip. You can't just take Vicodin whenever you feel like it!"

House smiled a crooked, wicked smile. "I can do whatever I want," he said. "What are you going to do—make me sit in an ice bath and sleep outside?"

Wilson gasped. Clearly, despite everything, House had not lost either his evil sense of humor or his self-destructive streak. Was this is a direct reaction to opening up about his father, or just a typical (for the old days, anyway) House moment?

Langley reached for the drip and adjusted the dose so he'd get less morphine until the Vicodin had worked its way through his system.

"We'll watch you for a while to see if you have any CNS or respiratory distress," she said, clearly annoyed with him.

"Of course you will," said House, gauging the mood in the room. "You all know perfectly well that if I'd wanted to off myself, I'd have palmed the pill—plus a few more—and waited till you were all gone. How stupid do you think I am? Setting myself up for a potentially dangerous drug interaction while in a hospital and in front of three physicians I handpicked myself. I'm not that dumb."

Not by far you're not, thought Jacey. "So why'd you do it?" she asked. "If you knew we'd be here to keep an eye on you, why did you take that pill?"

House peered at her out of his good eye. "Why not?" he answered.

"Not good enough," said Jacey.

He attempted to shrug his shoulders, managing to raise only the left and wincing at the attempt to raise the right.

"I wanted to get high," he offered. People generally believed that one.

"Try again."

He glared at her. She was going to spoil all his fun. Interesting, he thought. Usually, people left it alone, buying the idea that he wanted to get stoned.

"I wanted to see what you'd do," he said finally, partly because he was getting tired of this game, but also because it was true.

Jacey found this verbal sparring reassuring. For someone who'd had the life nearly beaten out of him more than once to make jokes about being punished and committing suicide—not to mention the fact that he was actively challenging them, which, given his experiences, should be exactly the kind of thing he'd avoid—showed an interesting level of emotional growth and perspective. More to the point, it meant that he really trusted everyone in the room. House wouldn't have done this a month ago.

Beside him, Rainie smiled. What an interesting, provocative man, she thought. She decided this might be a good time to "wake up." She stretched and opened her eyes, propping herself up into a sitting position.

"Hi, Rainie," said Jacey, noticing that she seemed much less fearful now that House was present.

"Hi. What's up?"

"We're just checking Dr. House out to make sure his brain's working all right," replied Jacey, wording it simply because she wasn't sure yet how much Rainie was capable of understanding.

"It sounds to me like his brain is working just fine," said Rainie, unexpectedly. "At least until that Vicodin kicks in. His psychological stability, on the other hand, is a whole different matter."

House jerked his head toward her in delight, the sudden movement making him grimace with pain. "_Uhhh! Ohww!"_ he said, slowly turning his head back to a forward-facing position. He bit his lip.

Jacey stared at her. This was the most she'd heard Rainie speak so far. And it was the first time she'd gotten a sense of the personality underneath the fear.

Karen Langley shook her finger at House. "I _told _you to lie still!" she said.

Wilson watched the tableau with curiosity. This is going to be interesting, he thought. Rainie may actually be able to keep up with House mentally. No wonder they're getting along so well.

"Let's finish this up. You're doing fine—as if you didn't already know that."

"Okay. What's next? Numbers in my palm? The smell of Wilson's aftershave?"

"Let's try this one. I think we've figured out that your mind is working okay, at least for now. Let's make sure the rest of you is, too. Put your left thumb on your right ear and stick out your tongue."

This one wasn't so easy.

Hmmm, thought House. Not sure I can do it. He thought about it a long time, working it out in his head before actually trying it. First, he had to figure out once more which was his left hand. He thought through the bandaged versus un-bandaged question, catching the glance that Karen Langley threw to Jacey Liu, the one that Wilson picked up on. Dammit, he thought. Now they're going to put me under a microscope. Maybe, he hoped, it was just the combo of drugs dulling his ability to send messages from his brain to his body.

He didn't notice that Rainie had also seen the glance among the other doctors.

Very slowly, after what seemed like minutes, he stuck out his left thumb and cautiously crossed his chest with it and then aimed upward toward his right ear. He missed and poked himself in his bandaged jaw. He eased the quivering hand upward until he found his ear. Then he stuck his tongue out at Wilson. He knew that wasn't the way it was supposed to go—he was supposed to stick his tongue out while moving his hand to his ear, but he hoped they wouldn't notice.

They noticed.

Possible neurological problems, thought Wilson, Langley and Liu.

Uh-oh, thought House, seeing the looks on their faces.

Not good, thought Rainie, watching closely. I bet it was supposed to be easier than that.

"That'll be it for now," said Langley, as if nothing had happened. "You try to get some rest. I'll send in a nurse to keep an eye on you. Rainie, do you need something to eat? Should we send someone in with food for you?"

Yes, she realized, she was hungry. "Sure," she replied, "as long as it isn't scrambled eggs."


	29. Chapter 29: It Looks a Little Odd

**Chapter 29**

It Looks a Little Odd…

**A**fter they left the room, Wilson, Liu and Langley adjourned to Jacey Liu's office.

"What do you think?" asked Wilson.

"Not sure," answered Langley. "Parietal lobe, maybe? Or his little drug cocktail. Could be worse, though. He had no trouble with the math, he's got no aphasia, anomia or anosagnosia, and he was ultimately able to do the task, although not well."

"In general, he's thinking quickly—very quickly—and his memory isn't impaired, at least not much," added Jacey Liu. "Well, we'd better keep an eye on him."

Wilson had to ask. "Do you think this was caused by the attack, or by whatever happened earlier today, or even the painkillers?"

"Could be any or all. I think we need to talk to Anna Stein," said Langley.

Glancing at her phone list, Jacey pressed an extension.

"Anna? It's Jacey Liu. Could you come over to my office? We need a consult."

Considering how much worse it could have been—in fact, how much worse it had seemed initially—this seemed relatively minor, but Wilson knew enough about head injuries to know that nothing was ever simple when it came to the brain. Especially House's rat's maze of a brain.

They got Anna Stein up to speed, explaining their concerns.

"Uh-huh," she said. "We ought to test him for hand-eye coordination, numbness on the left side, fine motor movements, dizziness. See if he can grasp objects, and try him on a drawing test. Has he tried to read or write? And we'd better watch him closely in case there are other problems, things he seemed fine with today, like math or naming objects. Not unexpected," she concluded.

"I guess not," said Jacey. "It would be more surprising if he had no ill effects from the attack. And given how serious it was, he's very fortunate to have survived at all."

"He may not see it that way," said Wilson. "I'm sure he noticed our reactions. He's far from stupid."

*** * * * **

"**S**o, how is he?" asked Foreman as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

Chase debated with himself about describing what he'd seen in House's room, about the bed, about Rainie, about Karen Langley's comments. Eventually, he decided it was no one's business but House's.

"He's fine," said Chase. "A little tired, and in a lot of pain, but fine."

Foreman didn't believe him.

*** * * * **

**H**ours later, House was asleep when Rainie's dinner—a nice piece of chicken—arrived. Much easier to manage than those damned eggs. He was still asleep when a nurse took her to the bathroom. It was the first time she'd tried to walk since being admitted, and she found that she was very wobbly, the pain made it hard to move, and she couldn't walk more than a step or two without a lot of help.

He was just starting to wake up when Claudia DuBois arrived for physical therapy. None of the therapists had been in room 304 since House had moved in, and no one had thought to warn them about what to expect.

Rainie noted the expression of surprise on Claudia's face when she saw the bed(s) and House.

I guess it does look a little odd, she thought for the first time. In fact, it looked very odd. Suddenly, the whole setup struck her funny. How would she have reacted to visiting a patient and finding that patient in bed with her doctor? Her face would probably look something like Claudia's.

She started to giggle. Oh, my god, she thought, I haven't laughed—really laughed—in so long. For four years, there'd been nothing to laugh at. There'd been fear, there'd been death, there'd been pain, but not laughter.

Her shoulders began to shake with the absurdity of her life as it now was. Her giggles turned to chortles, and the chortles to deep belly laughs.

Claudia just stared at her, and that just made Rainie laugh even more.

"Claudia!" House, suddenly awake, spoke abruptly, making her jump. "Get Dr. Liu. Now!"

Claudia froze and looked at him.

"I said, _now!_" said House as loudly as he could, which wasn't all that loud. "Move! Get out of here!"

Claudia ran out the door.

"Rainie!" said House.

She looked at him and began laughing even harder.

"Rainie! Stop it!"

Why would he want to stop her from laughing, she wondered. Why was House looking at her so strangely? Surely this was a good thing. Laughter was wonderful. Relaxed a person, released all those endorphins, made you feel good. It had been so long since she'd felt good.

She was laughing so hard, she could barely breathe. Her mind drifted to other moments of laughter—of Evie one of the last times she'd seen her, laughing at a TV show—of Jeff at their wedding reception, a little tipsy and very giddy.

Suddenly, her emotions crashed, just as House had known they would.

Followed by Claudia, Jacey ran into the room just before the laughter stopped. Rainie sat looking stunned, trying to catch her breath. And then everything swooped downward, leaving laughter behind, with sorrow and despair taking its place.

"Oh, god!" she cried out. Jeff. Evie. She'd never feel their warmth again or see those laughs, and from now forward, whenever she thought of them, she'd picture their last pained terrified moments. She began hiccupping as the emotions overtook her.

"Help her!" said House, a little desperately, turning to Jacey for help. He couldn't ride this rollercoaster again. He was too tired, and too wrung out.

"Rainie!" said Jacey. "Listen to me. We've got to calm you down. This isn't healthy for you. I'm going to give you Ativan. Are you okay with that?"

Overcome by the emotional pain she was now feeling, Rainie nodded. Anything to make it stop.

Jacey inserted the Ativan into Rainie's IV and within seconds, she had relaxed and slid down on the bed.

"Thank god," said House, exhaling in relief as she fell asleep next to him.

"How did you know?" asked Jacey, watching his face closely. When she'd come onto the case, some of the other doctors had warned her about House and how bad his people skills were, and yet she had seen astounding perception from him, insight that didn't jibe with his reputation.

"I just knew," he said decisively. He knew because he'd been there. He'd already had that moment when the freedom from fear overpowered him, when relief turned to laughter and then turned to hysteria and back to despair. He just knew.

"How are you doing?" she asked, noticing how pale he looked, and realizing that he'd begun to shiver.

"You mean with this or something else?" His blue left eye looked right into her, as he determinedly got a grip on himself.

"Whichever," said Jacey.

"I couldn't deal with this. Too much for one week," said House, not intending to go any further. But the showoff in him couldn't let it go. "I assume the other meaning of your question had to do with parietal lobe issues."

"Yes, of course it did," she responded. She'd learned quickly with him that there was no point in pretending she didn't understand.

"And I assume you and Langley and what's-her-name the neurologist are going to continue to poke and prod me for a while. Make me write my name, draw pictures, see if my fingers are numb or if I drop things, move me around to see if I get dizzy and vomit—the usual stuff."

"You assume correctly."

"Okay. As long as all of you know I know. And as long as you tell me what's happening. I want to see the results. All the results."

"Fair enough," said Jacey. "Right now, I think you need to sleep some more."

"I wouldn't be at all surprised," he said, yawning.

"How's the pain? That Vicodin should be wearing off. Do you need a sedative?"

"Pain's increasing. I think that's what woke me up before. Or at least part of what woke me up. If you increase the morphine, I think I'm tired enough to sleep without help."

Jacey adjusted his morphine levels, and just to make sure, slipped a little bit of sedative into the IV.

"Hey," said House as the drug hit his system. "No fair. I was… going… to…" His words slurred and got further apart. "…go… …to… …sleep… …anyway…" His eyelids closed as his head rolled back onto the pillow.

*** * * ***

**W**ilson always got to the hospital early, but this morning he came in even earlier. In fact, it wasn't even morning—it was the middle of the night. Finally caught up on his sleep, he now found himself restless.

After spending a fruitless half hour in his office trying to concentrate on paperwork, he finally acknowledged that he just wanted to see House, wanted to make sure he was okay.

Showing his ID to get past the guard—until they were positive Pevey was the only threat, security would remain tight—Wilson stepped quietly through the doorway to room 304 and settled himself and his paperwork onto the couch in the corner of the room.

As his eyes got used to the dark, he could see that once again House and Rainie Adler were intertwined. House was still propped up on the pillows, and Rainie was close by his side, snuggled in under his left arm. Both were breathing deeply.

If this wasn't working so well for both of them, it would be really weird, thought Wilson. Actually, it was pretty weird anyway. In fact, this would be weird even for a touchy-feely kind of doctor, much less for House, who couldn't get through a serious conversation without coming up with twenty-seven different ways to keep people at arm's length. And yet, here he was wrapping his arm around his patient, sharing a bed with her—well, beds—and apparently opening up his heart to her.

We've been friends for all these years, and I can barely chisel my way through his defenses. And now, suddenly, he thought irritably, he's telling people he barely knows about his father's abuse, which he never told me, and sharing a bed with a torture victim.

After attempting to read for a few more minutes, Wilson abruptly set his paperwork down and mentally addressed what was really bothering him. For a very long time—since long before Thompson dealt his evil blow—he'd nudged House to open up, to deal with his repressed emotions, to confront his past, to cast aside a few of his defenses. Somehow, though, when it actually seemed to be happening, he was upset to find House lowering his guard with people other than himself.

He, James Wilson, the special one, the one who understood House better than anyone else, the one who had been there through the worst, was feeling left out. And now that he'd put his finger on the source of his unease, he felt vaguely adolescent about it.

He glanced over again at the two sleeping figures. It makes sense for House to share things with Rainie, he reasoned. For starters, she's too badly wounded herself to be a threat to him—she may be the safest person he knows in that regard. And how else can he help her, except by letting her know he's been where she is? Be honest now. No one but the two of them can possibly understand what it's like. She desperately needs someone to trust, and who better than the only other person who could ever truly understand what she's going through?

And that person would be… Greg House? Had he just had that thought? Had he actually just put the idea of trust and Greg House together in the same thought, and it wasn't even a joke? Yeah, guess he did. Would wonders never cease.

Can't have it both ways, James, my boy. What is it you really want? Do you want House to deal with his feelings, or do you want to feel special? Just because House is opening up to other people and not only to you doesn't mean it's a bad thing. Better this than where we were a year ago. Way better than where we were two years ago.

Then there was the other part of it: House had been steadily improving over time, but if he was ever going to really reclaim his life, he was going to have to do at least some of it on his own, without Wilson propping him up. Clearly, House was beginning to take a few steps in that direction. If Pevey hadn't set it all back.

So Wilson really didn't have any right to feel left out. Even though he did.

Change was a bitch. No wonder House didn't like it.


	30. Chapter 30: A Sound of Pain

**Chapter 30**

The Sound of Pain…

**H**e woke up hearing the sound of pain, a sound he'd gotten used to after caring for House all this time. But this time it wasn't House who was in pain—it was Rainie. Wilson jumped up and ran over to her side of the bed(s). Her face was twisted up and her jaw clenched. House, on the other side, was struggling to wake up, blinking sleep away and reaching toward her, reining her in to his side.

House groggily whispered, "Where does it hurt? Tell me where it hurts, Rainie. It's okay—we're here to help," as he stroked her back with his left hand.

Wilson stared at him, shocked by the gentleness and openness he heard in his friend's voice.

"My head… _oh god_…! M-my head! … _unhhhh_…!"

She shut her eyes tight and put her hand over the right side of her face. It was obviously unbearable. House pulled her closer.

As Wilson followed the IV tube down to make sure it was still functioning, House focused on Rainie.

"Talk to me," he said, making her look at him. "Tell me anything. What kind of car did you drive? What's your favorite kind of dog? What time did you get to work in the morning? How long was your commute? Recite the words to 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star?' Come on—talk to me…"

"W-whatever for?" she managed to get out, as she glowered at him, squinting through pinched eyes. What was the matter with the man? Was he insane? Her head was splitting open and he wanted to make chitchat.

"Come on—focus on me."

The sound of his voice grated on her nerves. Why was he tormenting her this way?

"Why should I?" she reiterated.

He thought a minute. _Because I said so_ was apparently not going to work with this woman. Why, indeed?

"To get your mind off it," he said after a moment.

Fair enough, she thought. As long as there was a reason, she guessed she'd play along. But she wasn't going to like it. Not when his voice was ripping her head apart.

"Toyota Camry... Yorkie.... _ohhhh._.. ! Or maybe Old English Sheepdog.... I got to work at 10… _unhhh…!_ Short commute from… downtown, maybe 40 minutes… Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star… How I wonder what you are… up above the sky so high… like a… _uhhhh_…! diamond… in the sky…. _Ohhh!_

"Now what, you irritating son-of-a-bitch…? _ohh-uhhhh!_"

Interesting that she felt safe enough to get angry with him, thought House. He was pretty sure he hadn't done anything but quiver for months.

Her heart rate was rising, she was sweating and she couldn't think of anything but how much her head hurt. It felt as if someone had driven a knife into her eye socket and another into her jaw. Every sound in the room vibrated through her skull like a jackhammer.

Wilson hadn't found a problem with the IV. He shook his head at House. Nothing.

"Go find a nurse."

Wilson nodded and headed out the door. He saw Kate Marcus, the young night nurse, coming back from another patient's room.

"Kate. Need you here. Now!" he called. She ran toward him.

"How tall are you?" Ignoring Rainie's previous invective, House was trying to think fast but still avoid asking any questions that might pack an emotional wallop. "What's your favorite movie of all time? Movie stars? Any hobbies? Who is your best friend?"

"Five-foot-one… _uhhhh_….! Movie… I don't know… _Shawshank Redemption_…"

_Shawshank Redemption?_ Did she really say that? The idea of it struck House so funny, he had to look away for a moment to compose his face.

Expecting a laugh, she looked up at him as he turned an impassive face toward her. No reaction. If he'd found it humorous, House wasn't letting on. He was just looking at her intently. Didn't the man have a sense of humor? Well, _she _thought it was pretty funny. For her part, Rainie was now gasping between bursts of speech.

Now nurse Marcus was helping Wilson try to find a problem with the IV.

"Movie star… Morgan Freeman… Fred Astaire… Tom Hanks… _ohhhhh!_... Joan Blondell… George Clooney… _ahhh_…! Katharine Hepburn… Hobbies… playing jazz piano… _ohhh, god! …_ I guess not anymore…"

House winced. Strange coincidence, he thought.

"…Tap dancing—not that either… _owwwww!_ Sorry…. can't think… Best friend…?"

She paused, trying to breathe.

"Best friend…?" she said again, looking up at him. "I… I guess right this minute maybe it's you."

House swallowed and closed his eyes for a second. I knew heading into this thing it was going to be intense, he thought. But I had no idea. When she was that open and that vulnerable, he knew he had to be open and vulnerable back—a near impossibility for him until the last few days.

"I'm… flattered, Rainie. You might not care for me so much when I haven't been hit in the head and doped up on sedatives and painkillers. Speaking of which, have you two found anything yet?"

"Not a thing, Dr. House," said Kate Marcus. "It all looks good."

"Well, it isn't," he said impatiently, feeling her shudder at his side. "Something's giving her a headache so severe the pain is breaking through the morphine. Get me that doctor who specializes in pain management. _Ummm_… what's her name, Wilson?"

Rainie began to weep from the pain, and he tightened his hold on her.

"It's Little. Synthia Little," said Wilson. "Kate, see if you can get her right away. It's an emergency." Kate nodded and ran back to the nurse's station.

"Wilson, come here." House leaned toward the right side of his bed.

"What, what is it?" asked Wilson, coming close.

"You deal with pain all the time," said House speaking softly, turning his head away from Rainie, who was moaning next to him. "What the hell is causing this? I mean, if nothing's wrong with the IV, how come she just got a huge spike in her pain levels?"

"I don't know, House."

Rainie was now sobbing from the pain, curled tightly into his side. Suddenly, she squirmed out of House's grasp, and slid down in the bed, holding her hands over her face.

"M-my eyes…" she breathed, pulling the sheet and blanket over her head.

"Turn out those lights!" whispered House to Kate Marcus, who was just coming back into the room. She ran to the switch and dimmed the lights. He saw Rainie's trembling hands pull the sheet down until her face appeared again, her eyes closed tight in pain as she tried to breathe.

And then, very softly to Wilson: "Oh, god, how obvious… it's a migraine—they don't always respond, even to morphine. I'm an idiot—trying to help by talking to her. The sound of my voice must have made her nearly insane. We've got to get it treated. She can't go on like this… and neither can I."

Wilson looked up sharply, noticing for the first time how pale House was.

"I don't know if I can keep this up," he said quietly. "Every time I wake up, there's another crisis. God, Wilson! I'm so tired. I'm trying to help her, but this is consuming me. My pain. Her pain. My emotions. Her emotions. It hurts so much, I feel as if I'm going to implode."

When he makes up his mind to do something, he really does it, Wilson thought. I've wanted him to open up. Well, he's doing it. We really are in a brave new world, aren't we?

"House," said Wilson, gently, putting his hand on the one safe area of House's right arm, "let's get through this and then we'll talk about it later."

"Fine," said House, "but you need to know my headache is worse, too. I'm very queasy and I can't feel my hand, whichever one it is."

Then he leaned over the side of the bed and abruptly threw up all over Wilson's shoes.

Rainie was still crying, House was vomiting and nurse Marcus was still trying to reach Synthia Little. Wilson paged Cuddy, then Jacey, then Karen, then everyone else on his list as he started to clean the vomit off his shoe with a damp paper towel.

"Hold on—I'm getting help for both of you."

"Thanks," said House weakly.

One by one, physicians and nurses began dribbling into the room.

"Yes, it's a migraine," said Synthia Little, who administered a nasal spray of Imitrex to Rainie. "This doesn't always work, either, but it's got a good track record."

Within minutes, Rainie had settled down in relief.

Wilson, Jacey and Cuddy stood whispering in the corner of the room.

"He said he didn't know if he could keep going—that all of this emotional upset was too much," said Wilson.

He said that, thought Cuddy. Interesting.

"Should we remove him from the situation?" she asked. "Rainie's obviously getting better emotionally—maybe she would be able to handle it now—and House's condition is too precarious, especially after tonight, to risk it."

"I'm not so sure," said Jacey. "Yes, it's undoubtedly painful for him to deal with these emotions—my understanding is he hadn't been all that good at it even before Thompson—but it's also necessary and healthy. As long as it doesn't jeopardize his physical health."

"Well, that's the real issue, isn't it?" asked Wilson. "If his emotional upset is causing physical symptoms, then we have no choice but to remove him."

Karen Langley, who lived further away than some of the others who had been paged, came striding swiftly down the hall toward them.

"What's happened?" she asked. They updated her, then asked her advice on the question of the hour: What to do with House?

"Tough call," she said. "He's been doing so well up till now. But we knew this was a possibility all along, especially after yesterday's tests. The question is, will he be better off staying here or should he be by himself?"

"So, what do you think?" asked Cuddy of Anna Stein. Her inclination, after tonight's adventure, was to put House in a separate room and let him heal, but she wasn't a neurologist or a psychiatrist.

"Speaking strictly as a neurologist, I'd say… well, I don't know what I'd say. He's got to have peace and quiet, and just the logistics of having two people in the same room—different treatments, different visitors and so on—might not be helping. On the other hand, they seem to be comforting each other in some way. I'd say, leave them together for now. We can always reevaluate later, once he's doing better."

"If things don't settle down soon, I think it's possible it may cause problems for both of them," agreed Jacey. "Even without physical injury, you can only keep going at this level of intensity for so long. I think we should keep a close eye on him for a few more hours before we make a decision."

After a moment, Anna Stein agreed. "Let's just watch him closely."

"Fine," said Cuddy. "But if his condition is being exacerbated by being in this room, I want him out pronto."

"Agreed. But let's make sure Rainie is in the loop, okay? She needs to know what's happening before we suddenly yank him out of there," said Jacey. "We can't have this setting her back any more than necessary—she's been doing remarkably well under his care."


	31. Chapter 31: A Cause for Concern

**Chapter 31**

A Cause For Concern…

**B**y mid-morning, House and Rainie were awake again. Rainie was tackling another breakfast, this time the much easier pancakes and bacon. Wilson had toddled off to his office.

House lay back against the pillows, looking washed out. His skin was pale and his eyes were hollow.

Jacey and Anna Stein were conferring in the corner.

"Hey!" said House, weakly. "Talk to me." The two looked up, and wandered toward his bedside. "You said you'd keep me informed."

Rainie looked up from her battle with breakfast. Something about his tone of voice didn't sound good.

"Let's be blunt about this. I'm in critical condition. I've had a serious head injury. So far, I've been damned lucky, but there are a few things that might be cause for concern. Right." It wasn't a question.

Jacey nodded.

"Then get it over with. I need to know here I stand." He looked down at his broken body in the bed. "Or not, as the case may be." He still felt that bruise on his left side. Odd that with all his other injuries, that would be what he noticed.

Jacey asked House where he lived, what season it was and what his name, age and occupation were. So far, so good. She pointed at the chair next to House's bed and asked him to name it. He rolled his eyes and did so. Then, without prompting, he named a syringe and a male genital, comparing one to the other in rather graphic terms.

Amused by the vulgarity, Rainie looked over and smiled. Anna Stein, a serious sort, did not.

Jacey placed a piece of paper on the tray in front of him. On it were the words "Close your eyes." He closed his eyes, gladly. He was tired, very tired. And why shouldn't he be? He was also bored, so he allowed his mind to stroll around.

"Good," she said, telling him to reopen them. Then she handed him a pencil and asked him to write his name. With some difficulty, thanks to the cast on his arm, he did so. While he was at it, he drew an unsteady picture of a very small penis and carefully wrote "Not my penis" under it.

Somewhere, he could hear music playing. It sounded like—yes, it was—Oscar Peterson playing "Hymn to Freedom," one of House's favorite recordings. How enchanting. A little part of him unwound into the music, and felt tranquil, maybe even verging on content.

He smelled the sweet, juicy tang of strawberries from Rainie's breakfast, and felt a slight breeze caressing his skin in pleasing, almost erotic ways.

Perhaps he was feeling happy; in fact, he was almost sure of it. He glanced at Rainie, and his heart soared, realizing that, somehow, he was helping her. She was so much further along than he'd been at this point. He breathed in and exhaled slowly, enjoying the nearly unique sensation (in his experience, anyway) of absolute wellbeing. He felt good, really good, and he felt certain that he'd continue to feel good for a long time.

That's odd, he thought as he looked toward Rainie again. There are no strawberries on her plate. And yet he could smell them quite plainly.

"Here's the next question. If you found a driver's license on the ground, what would you do?"

"I'd look at…" Suddenly he simply stopped talking.

"Dr. House? Dr. House? Greg?"

Rainie, who had just about finished her breakfast, turned to look at him. His eyes were looking at her, wide open, but he wasn't seeing anything. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. He closed it, then opened it, then closed it again. He was extremely pale.

"Greg? _Greg?!"_ she said, shaking him slightly. He continued to stare in that disturbing manner. She felt herself beginning to panic and fought the feeling down. There were two doctors in the room; they'd be able to do something.

Jacey passed her hand in front of House's unseeing eyes. His mouth continued to open and close.

"Anna, he's seizing."

Stein, who had been sitting on the couch making notes, jumped up and ran over.

"Complex partial," she said. "Should be about over."

Sure enough, after a few more alarming seconds, he blinked and said, "…the picture to see if it was anyone I knew."

Something's happened, he thought. How did Stein get over here? Either I'm hallucinating or I've had a seizure, because no one is where they should be. And they're all looking at me. Seizure, I bet. I'm still sitting up, so it must have been temporal lobe.

"Temporal lobe seizure?" he asked, not needing an answer.

Liu and Stein nodded.

"That's wonderful. Can't tell you how overjoyed I am to hear it," he said, as Stein hovered. She's looking blurry, he thought. I might be due for progressives soon.

Suddenly, he didn't feel at all well. The pain on his left side became really sharp and radiated up to the shoulder, making it hard to breathe. That's not bruising, he thought, laying his head back against the pillows as Rainie put her hand on his arm, reassuringly.

The pain intensified all of a sudden, and he cried out and doubled over. Stein and Jacey Liu finally realized something was seriously wrong and began examining him.

"What is it?! Where does it hurt?!" asked Stein. House could barely breathe for the pain.

He felt light-headed, and nothing seemed to be making any sense. Was this what happened after a seizure, he wondered. It didn't seem right.

No, of course not. Not the aftermath of a seizure, not at all. Much worse. He felt himself slipping into a faint. Say it quick or it might be too late.

"Get me… an… O.R. now… I've bagged my spleen…"

His head rolled back and he was out.

*** * * ***

**I**t happened so fast no one had time to notice how it began. He'd turned very pale—but he'd been pale all morning, even before the seizure—and then he suddenly, startlingly, screamed out in pain, gasping between screams. Clutching his left side, he'd mumbled something about his spleen. Then he'd fainted, and all hell broke loose.

Next to him, Rainie was stunned as Dr. Stein and Dr. Liu called for an emergency medical team and an operating room. She sat quietly on the bed, helpless, stroking his arm and the side of his face until the room filled up with people in scrubs, sliding a pallid House onto a gurney and racing him back out of the room. Then she began to shake.

Jacey Liu stayed behind with Rainie, trying to comfort her, not very successfully. Almost immediately, Rainie began to slip back into the frightened, withdrawn woman she'd been when she was first admitted. For a long minute after the gurney left, Rainie stared out the door, acutely aware of the empty space next to her, still warm from his body.

She exhaled a long, slow breath.

Jacey waited, hoping this wouldn't cause Rainie to regress.

_I don't have to let this frighten me_, Rainie thought_. I can be calm_. She just didn't know how to stop the fear. House had become her magic talisman. No, that was stupid. She didn't believe in talismans before and she certainly wasn't going to start now. But she did acknowledge that when House was around, she felt a level of security that simply wasn't there when he wasn't. Maybe it's because they both knew he'd somehow survived, and if he could, she could. Without him in the room, she felt bereft.

When Jacey looked at Rainie, she saw her jaw tighten and her eyes fill with anxiety as she slid down partway in the bed, still shaking.

Just then, a frantic Dr. Wilson ran into the room.

*** * * ***

**A**round 10, Wilson finished with a patient and thought he'd check in on House again. As he got close to 304, a gurney barreled through the doorway, moving quickly, almost running him down. On it was House, unconscious and ashen, and running alongside it were three people, one of whom was Anna Stein.

"What? What's happened?" asked Wilson, stunned.

"O.R. Emergency surgery," said Stein as she passed.

"Why?!" called out Wilson, stunned, but he got no answer. The gurney was already disappearing down the hall.

He rushed into room 304, and found Rainie Adler lying halfway down, staring at the doorway, with Jacey Liu standing next to the bed, looking at Rainie's face with concern.

"What's happened?!" he asked again.

Jacey shook her head. "Not sure," said Jacey. "It was sudden. He said... he needed an O.R. and then passed out."

"He said something else," whispered Rainie suddenly, her journalist's instincts kicking in. "Something about his spleen—I think he said, 'I've bagged my spleen.'"

Wilson turned pale himself, stood very still, and then took in a deep breath, filling his lungs in an attempt to get control of his emotions.

He bagged his spleen? How could they have missed something as obvious as the spleen? Those bruises on the left side—why didn't someone check them when he was admitted? More important—way more important—House shouldn't have had to diagnose it himself, especially not in his condition, and definitely not so late in the game, when it had gotten to the point where he needed emergency surgery. Damn. It was like the leg all over again. Couldn't someone besides House figure anything out? The man has so little trust to begin with, and everything conspires to make him trust people less and less. He felt himself flushing with anger.

Rainie found herself examining Wilson's reaction, noting that he'd narrowed his eyes and started breathing deeply, exhaling so forcefully through his nostrils that they flared. She saw the lips pressed tightly together and the tense line in his cheek, and saw his face flush.

Oh, that's interesting, she thought, almost dispassionately. He's really pissed off. What a strange reaction to finding out your colleague and friend has just been rushed into emergency surgery. Somebody here must have screwed up. Really screwed up.

"Shouldn't someone have caught this earlier?" she asked, testing her theory.

Wilson's jaw clenched tighter.

"Yes," he said, tersely. "_Somebody_ should have."

Whoa, she thought. He's not only pissed that it wasn't caught, he's—she couldn't quite put her finger on it—ah, yes! He's pissed because House had to diagnose it himself, after all these other doctors have been fussing over him for days. She couldn't explain how she knew this, but she did. It was those flashing moments of insight that had made her such a good reporter… and had gotten her in all this trouble.

There was one thing more she got from looking at Wilson. Whatever bagging a spleen was, it wasn't good. In fact, it was really bad. Might as well know the worst.

"What does it mean?" she asked in a low voice.

Wilson paused.

"'Bagged my spleen?' What does it mean?" she asked, more insistently.

She had to know.

Wilson took a moment to try to control his rage before answering.

"It… _um_… it means his spleen was ruptured when he was injured, and has been slowly bleeding into his abdomen." Wilson forced the words out through his teeth. He wasn't doing too well at keeping that sharp, tight note out of his voice. Well, Rainie had no reason to suspect he was angry. She wouldn't notice.

Noticing was what she did best, so of course she saw his ongoing anger.

"It's bad, isn't it?" asked Rainie tremulously, now quite sure of the answer.

Wilson nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

She swallowed hard, and tried not to cry, looking around the room to keep her mind away from the implications.

Wilson saw the distressed look on her face as her glance flickered toward the other bed, to the indentation on the mattress, and then as her eyes drifted up to the matching concave mark on the pillows, where House had been lying just a few minutes ago.

In her left eye, a tear developed and slowly grew until it spilled over her lower lid. She made no sound as others followed, until soon her face was wet with tears.

How could House—the House who preferred annoying people to getting along with them—have made such an impact on this damaged woman that she was crying over him?

"Rainie, I know we're not Dr. House…"

It felt strange to say that, given House's reputation.

"…But Dr. Liu and I are here for you… until Dr. House gets better."

Despite the glimpses Wilson had had in the last few days of House's real bedside manner, the idea so contradicted his concept of his friend, he couldn't entirely accept the reality that perhaps for his patients—or at least for this patient—House was willing to drop his guard and create a bond, one in which her wellbeing was more important than the next crude joke. A bond that maybe he wasn't quite willing to forge with his best friend.

"I… I know. Thank you. Please… _please_ let me know as soon as he's out of surgery."

She was so quiet, he could barely hear her.

"I will," said Wilson, putting on his best encouraging doctor voice.

She slid further down in the bed, looking away from both him and Jacey Liu. He could see her quaking from across the room. Jacey reached toward her reassuringly, but Rainie jerked away from her touch. Then, turning her back on the psychiatrist, she curled herself up tight, her eyes staring vacantly at nothing in particular. Wilson thought he heard her whimper.

Torn between the urge to stay and try to help Rainie and the desire to go running down to the O.R., he wavered. _I can't make things go better or quicker by being there_, he thought, _even if I want to_.

Jacey Liu sensed his tension. "Dr. Wilson, I know you want to check up on Dr. House. Why don't you go ahead? I'll stay here with Rainie."

Wilson nodded in relief, and walked quickly to the still-open doorway. Once outside, he broke into a run.


	32. Chapter 32: Emergency Surgery

**Chapter 32**

Emergency Surgery…

**J**oe Roberts worked all night and into the morning, his desk covered in folders and notes. He'd gone over the House/Adler case a dozen times, trying to convince himself that he'd covered everything, that no more nasty surprises would cause commotion in the lives of two people who deserved nothing less than peace and contentment. A big man with a tender heart, he hadn't slept well in weeks, not since he'd found the storage unit.

In the background, his radio provided a soothing soundtrack for his troubled mind.

It was noon.

He was so caught up in his own thoughts, he barely noticed when the music ended and the news began. About four minutes past the hour, something caught his attention. He thought he heard House's name. Abruptly, he turned up the volume and listened intently.

"…House, the world-renowned diagnostician who was attacked in his home last week, is undergoing emergency surgery at this hour in Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Hospital officials say they can't comment on his prognosis but say his condition is grave."

Roberts immediately dialed Lisa Cuddy's private number, and waited.

"Lisa Cuddy."

"Dr. Cuddy. It's Joe Roberts with the FBI. I just heard the news."

There was a very long pause. "Oh, hi, Joe. We're still waiting for word."

On the other end, Cuddy stood, phone in hand, gripping the back of her desk chair for support. If she could just get through this conversation, she thought. If she just didn't have to think about what Wilson had told her, that House had diagnosed himself, but only when it was probably too late.

"Dr. Cuddy? Are you there?"

Another long pause.

"Yes, Joe. Sorry. It's been… a little much."

She'd grown fond of agent Roberts over the past two years, and he seemed to genuinely care about House.

*** * * ***

**L**ife was anything but tranquil in room 304. Ever since House had been rushed out, Rainie had gradually retreated into herself. Initially, she tried to fight against the panic, but it didn't take long for her to lose the battle against the memories in her own mind.

Within an hour, she'd already had a couple of flashbacks, screaming in terror over beatings and torture that took place only in her hallucinations. The effect of these flashbacks on the nursing staff was dramatic. Even nurses who weren't assigned to her hovered near the door of the room, whispering to each other about how she flinched and cried out as if someone were attacking her.

_You think you felt pain before? You ain't seen nothin' yet, you little bitch. Grab her arm, and let's show her what real pain feels like. Drag her over here. I've got a little contraption that should really open her eyes. Come on, sweetheart. It's showtime. _

When anyone came near her, she shrieked and tried to get away. More than once, she attempted to flee the confines of her hospital bed, yanking out her IV and detaching the monitoring equipment in her desperate need to escape. Early on, House had left strict orders that she was not to be restrained under any circumstances, so the hospital staff was left with few options as Rainie struggled to take flight.

About four hours after House was taken out of the room, she'd been left alone for no more than five minutes while Jacey Liu took an emergency call out in the hallway. When Jacey came back in, the bed was empty and dappled with blood. Looking around the room, she finally found Rainie cowering in a corner of the room, quivering and sobbing, covering her head, her hand bleeding from where the IV had been inserted.

No, life wasn't tranquil in room 304. There was now no question that House had been helping Rainie in her recovery. But House wasn't here.

*** * * ***

**A**t his desk on the third floor, the one next to what used to be Rainie Adler's desk, Evan Schuster tried to compile his notes for an article on attorney-client privilege. He wasn't getting anywhere, so he distracted himself by reading the wire services. Some distraction. Far from it, in fact. Just as the short blurb hit the wires, he read it, trying to decipher the story behind the lack of details about Dr. House needing emergency surgery. As he was processing this latest development, his phone rang.

"Mr. Schuster," said the familiar-sounding voice he couldn't quite place.

"Yes."

"It's Naveen Ajunta at Princeton Plainsboro. Do you have any time in the next couple of days? We'd like to have you come in and see Rainie."

Why now? It obviously had something to do with House and this emergency surgery.

"I think I could get away for a couple of hours later in the day or early tomorrow," he said, quickly scrolling through his online calendar. "What's up?"

There was a pause.

"I don't know if you've heard..." said Dr. Ajunta.

"I have," said Evan brusquely. What was this? He'd get to see Rainie only when House was incapacitated? He brushed aside his annoyance. He probably wasn't being fair, but he hadn't been able to shake a feeling of dread after seeing Rainie react fearfully to him. How could she be afraid of him? He was her best friend.

Not normally the most introspective of men, Evan Schuster had trouble putting his finger on what bothered him the most. Was it that Rainie wasn't overjoyed to see him, in which case it might reflect badly on him, or was it that he was jealous of House? He put that thought aside. Stupid. House had been on the receiving end of enough bad karma to last several lifetimes; he didn't need Evan Schuster's neuroses on top of it.

Ajunta attempted to reassure him. "Until this setback, she was doing much better than when you visited before, both physically and emotionally. Now that her condition is more stable, we think it's time to reintroduce her to people she knew before she… well, before."

Evan hoped that was right, but he couldn't help feeling he was being used as some kind of poor surrogate for the role House had been playing in her recovery.

Suddenly annoyed, he said, "What you really mean is that now Dr. House is out of the picture for a while, you don't really know what to do and you're hoping I can play substitute teacher."

On the other end, Ajunta grimaced. He couldn't blame Schuster for feeling this way, but the important thing here was not any one person's feelings, but what was best for Rainie.

"I think I can understand how you feel, Mr. Schuster," he said, finding his way, "and there's an element of truth in what you're saying. Up until now, Ms. Adler has responded well only to Dr. House. We've known for some time that she would have to expand her horizons eventually. His sudden illness has pushed that to the forefront. We want to make sure that her recovery doesn't get pushed back because of this… or at least not too much. As she hasn't really bonded with any of the other staff, we were hoping that perhaps her friendship with you would help her now."

That was honest enough. Evan didn't really mind getting used, as long as it was out in the open… and was in Rainie's best interests.

"That's fair," he said, calming himself down. He could almost hear Ajunta's relief over the phone.

"Rainie was in the room when Dr. House was taken ill, and she's already exhibiting considerable anxiety. We really want to provide her with as strong a support system as we can." Especially if House doesn't make it, thought Ajunta.

"What exactly happened? The wire service piece was pretty vague."

It wouldn't do to go into the details, especially not the part about how PPTH should have caught the spleen problem long before now. Ajunta decided to stick to the basics.

"Apparently, Mr. Schuster, his spleen was ruptured when he was attacked. Usually, that would require immediate attention, but in some cases, the rupture is quite small and results in a slow leak that's harder to detect."

"So what does that mean in real life?"

"It means..." He took a breath before finishing the thought. "It means, Mr. Schuster, that for several days now Dr. House has been slowly bleeding to death."


	33. Chapter 33: Waiting

**Chapter 33**

Waiting…

**W**ilson waited. Again. Over the past six years, Wilson had spent far too much time waiting. It was beginning to wear on him, this constant shifting of the ground. Just as he'd start getting his bearings again, the landscape would change.

Here he was once more, waiting. Waiting to find out if House would make it through the surgery. Waiting. Endlessly waiting. Wishing he could do something—anything—to make it better. But there was nothing he could do. There had never been anything he could do. He couldn't make it go away. He couldn't undo it. He couldn't stop the freight train of pain and terror that had trammeled his friend, infesting his mind and shredding his emotions. He couldn't heal that shattered body, and he couldn't stop the next moment from crashing down upon them both.

So he waited.

It was all he could do.

*** * * ***

**D**ecrying the solemn mood elsewhere in the hospital, the lobby was bustling. A young mother was ecstatically headed out, cradling her newborn daughter as her bleary-eyed husband pushed their wheelchair toward the door. A few steps away, leaving her parents far behind, a dark-haired, brown-eyed six-year-old skipped along the shiny marble floor, eager to get home to her new puppy and a lime popsicle to soothe her tonsil-free throat. Across from the main desk, a very old man smiled, thankful that the news had been good.

When the front doors opened, an older couple walked briskly into the lobby. He was ramrod straight, with a serious expression; she was slim and attractive, following half a step behind and walking with a slight limp. They aimed straight for the desk.

"We're here to see someone," said the man to no one in particular.

The soft young man in front of him at reception, who had just started his first day of work ten minutes earlier, glanced up from his computer screen.

"Yes?" he asked, not really making eye contact as he tried to juggle the demands of his new job.

"We're here to see someone," the man repeated, a little impatiently.

"Yes, um… who?"

His professional skills need improvement, noted the long-time receptionist on the left who was giving directions to a confused man with a head cold.

"Gregory House," said the man.

The young man didn't notice it, but the other receptionists fell silent when they heard the name.

"Um… let me check on that. Do you know what room he's in?"

The couple seemed puzzled by this.

The woman to the left had stood up and slipped out of the confines of the circular desk, walking briskly toward one of the security guards at the door.

"Come on. We've got another one," she said. The guard rolled his eyes.

When she got back, the young man was still struggling to find a Gregory House in the computer. He didn't know it, but he wasn't going to find what he was looking for. At the FBI's recommendation, House's name and room number had been removed from the database, as had Maureen Adler's.

The older man was getting more impatient.

"How hard is this?" he asked brusquely, just as the security guard approached. "Just look him up!"

Now flustered, the young man looked around for help.

"Sir, I'll need to see your identification," demanded the security guard of the older man.

"What?!" spluttered the man. "You want to see _my_ identification?"

The woman, who had remained silent throughout, now spoke up. "Show it to him, dear." Her words came out slightly slurred, as if she was having trouble enunciating clearly.

"I'll be damned if I will," he said, his voice began to get louder. "I come in here and made a simple request, and this idiot calls security. What is wrong with this place?!"

A few faces turned quickly toward the noise and then, as is often the way, just as quickly turned away, discomfited.

"You'll have to come with me, sir," said the security guard, putting his hand firmly on the man's elbow.

"I most certainly will not," said the man, getting flushed as he shrugging off the hand. "I came here to see Gregory House, and I'm not leaving until I see him."

"Please, dear. Stop it," said the woman through tight lips. "You're making a scene… and you're embarrassing me."

Right behind them, a slim man with silver flecks speckled through his dark brown hair paused. Over his soft, faded t-shirt, he wore a pinstriped suit jacket over an equally faded pair of jeans, and he carried a satchel over his left shoulder. His eyes, heavy with anxiety, took in the scene.

"I don't care if I'm embarrassing you. We didn't come all this way to go back now. I'm here to see him, and by god, I'm going to see him!"

The security guard tightened his grip on the man's elbow. "I'm sorry, sir, but you're not. You'll have to come with me now." Despite the older man's advantage in height, the security guard successfully guided him back toward the main door. As they got close to the entrance, the guard spoke into his headset walkie-talkie.

"We've got a situation down here on one," he said. "Right. Yes. Front door."

He hustled the couple even closer to the door. The woman, clearly mortified, followed along meekly. The man seemed ready for battle.

The slim man still stood for a moment where he'd stopped, mesmerized by the confrontation. Then he eased forward to the desk, avoiding the soft young man and heading toward the thin, middle-aged woman on the left, the one who knew her job better.

By now, others in the lobby had stopped to watch the scene unfold. The older woman seemed to shrink as her husband got louder and louder in his insistence.

"You can't do this!" he spluttered.

From behind him, the slim man heard the elevator ding, and out of the corner of his eye saw three more security people—two men and a woman—head swiftly toward the first guard. As they passed, he noticed a nametag that read "FBI: Shelby Martin."

"What's the trouble here?" asked Shelby Martin, who seemed to be in charge.

"This man insists on seeing Gregory House. Fifth one today."

The slim man's ears perked up at that.

"Now, look, sir," said Martin. "We can't allow anyone to see Dr. House. You're going to have to leave the premises now."

"How dare you?!" yelled the older man, turning really red.

Next to him, the slim man heard two of the receptionists whispering. "…and then it gets on the news and all the nutcases show up," said one of them. "Cuddy would kill us if anyone else got to him," agreed the other, _sotto voce_.

"I'm very sorry, sir, but no one is allowed to visit Dr. House. We are under strict orders. You'll have to leave."

The wife was tugging on her husband's sleeve, trying to get him out the door. The man resisted for a moment, and then in an apoplectic explosion cursed at the assembled crowd and stormed out the door, dragging his wife behind him.

It took a few minutes for the room to settle down.

Once it was quiet, the slim man turned back to the receptionist. "I have an appointment with Dr. Ajunta," he said.


	34. Chapter 34: Pacing Sitting Pacing

**Chapter 34**

Pacing. Sitting. Pacing. Reading. Pacing…

**T**his time, Rainie recognized him right away.

"Oh, Evan," she said shakily, as she made fleeting eye contact with him.

"Hey, punkin. How are you?" he said, as if he'd just run into her at the neighborhood market. He leaned forward to kiss her cheek, but she started, recoiling dramatically, her right arm flying up to cover her head. So he thought better of it.

Stupid, she thought. It's just Evan. Her heart was racing from just that slight shot of adrenalin.

"Okay," she replied after a moment, still looking down. "I'm okay."

She didn't look okay and she didn't sound okay, but maybe she looked a little better than the last time. He tried not to stare at her face, her hands. Now that he was close up and she was awake, he could really see some of the damage that had been done to her, and the sight of it tore at him. His eyes stung form the effort to keep from crying.

Back before… _before_… she'd been such a lovely woman in a non-Hollywood, natural kind of way. Her short dark hair was usually a mess of curls, her deep-set hazel eyes made up lightly and her face animated with her latest enthusiasm.

Now, the curls were still there and the deep-set hazel eyes, but her face was so different that he was having trouble reconciling it with the one in his memory. He'd noticed the difference in her complexion before, but now, close up, he could see broken blood vessels just beneath the surface, creating a texture commingled with the many scars overlapping each other all over her skin. Her right eyebrow was slightly askew because of a scar jutting up from it, and her left cheekbone seemed somehow different from its twin. Her chin was… well, dented… and he could see the scars continuing on down her neck and onto her shoulders.

Most haunting was the lack of expression on her face. For as long as he'd known her, going on 20 years now, since they were friends in college, her face had illuminated her thoughts and feelings. It was one of the things he loved about her; she could never hide her reactions to things—everything was out in the open. If she was excited, it showed. If she was upset or angry, it showed. But now, nothing showed. Her face was blank.

It wouldn't do to fall apart here, not in front of her, but he longed for a stiff drink—maybe two—in the privacy of his apartment.

He found he had nothing to say. The two friends whose desks nearly touched, who jabbered together all day long and who talked on the phone every night after work were suddenly struck mute.

What could he safely ask her about? There was nothing, really. Small talk was out of the question. What TV shows had she watched lately? Been to any good restaurants? How were Jeff and the baby? How did she feel about being released from prison? Sure liked that new outfit. Had she been on a diet? How about them Mets?

Awkwardly, he sat next to her, saying nothing.

Finally, tentatively, he went for it. "How are you feeling, honey? Really?"

She looked in his direction, again not making eye contact except for a fraction of a second.

Pausing, and then looking off to the right toward the spot where House had been. Evan though he caught just a flash of emotion, but couldn't identify it, and wasn't really even sure he'd seen it.

"Better, I guess," she said finally. "Better than I was."

If this was better, then what was worse? He could hardly finish that thought, even in his own mind. He wanted to ask if she was in pain, if there was anything he could do, did she need anything. But she was so closed off, so self-contained, he said nothing. Her hospital blanket might as well have been a "Do Not Disturb" sign.

She sat still, not moving, except for a slight tremor throughout her body.

After another very long pause, he tried again.

"You know I love you," he said.

She flinched, and he didn't know why.

Loving me is too dangerous, she thought. You'll just wind up dead, like Evie or Jeff. Or dying… like Greg. No, don't love me. Don't care for me. Don't get close. Don't even try. Because it'll hurt too much when I lose you, too.

For the first time, Evan saw real expression on Rainie's face. Something terrible, something excruciating crossed her features. Her eyes—what was it about her eyes?

"Don't," she said simply. "Just don't."

*** * * ***

**H**ow many times had he walked out of that very operating room to find friends and family nervously waiting right here? There were three possible outcomes. "It's okay—it's benign," which would bring tears or smiles of relief. "It's malignant, so we'll start treatment right away," would elicit small gasps of anxiety. The worst was "Sorry—there was nothing we could do_,_" because there really was nothing anyone could do, except let them cry.

Pacing. Sitting. Pacing. Trying to read. Pacing. Pacing. Pacing.

Now, on the other side of it, sitting in the sterile waiting room with nothing to do but think, Wilson knew what the three possible outcomes were.

Either House would be okay—at least as okay as he was ever capable of being—or he faced a difficult recuperation, or his life was ebbing right now on that operating table, and Wilson would never again hear that harsh laugh or see those startling blue eyes that seared his soul.

Hunched over on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped as he pressed his forefingers to his lips, Wilson tried—again—to prepare himself. But mostly, he waited.

When his cell phone went off, Wilson jumped. Literally jumped.

"Yes, hello?" he answered, startled and out of breath.

When all he heard on the other end was yelling, Wilson hung up.

It rang again. He let it go to voicemail.


	35. Chapter 35: What Kind of Pain?

**Chapter 35**

What Kind of Pain?

**A**fter the first jolt of pain subsided and until the next one began, before he solved the mystery behind his symptoms, House felt himself starting to slip away down a misty dark rabbit hole. Oh, god! Could anything be more painful than what he felt all the time? Yes, the right side of his head hurt worse. It was all a matter of degrees. And now his side hurt worse that that. But could any of that compare with the days and nights he'd left behind? If he could get through that, he could get through this. So he could bear it, even though it made him scream out his agony and bend nearly double.

But then, he started slipping away again. He felt nothing, not even pain. That wasn't so bad, was it? It was what he'd longed for. The voices around him got faint and the images before his eyes receded into the fog. The only thing real was Rainie's touch on his face. He slid further away.

No, wait. There were still things he needed to do. He tried to pull himself back, staving off the inevitable. He wasn't ready to go.

*** * * ***

**B**ack in room 304, Rainie was moaning. When he'd slid open the glass door, Mark St. John could hear the gentle cries and see her turn slightly under the covers, trying to get comfortable. He nodded to Jacey Liu, who stood up to leave, stretching, glad for a break.

As she headed toward the door, Jacey touched Mark lightly on the arm and took him aside, giving him an update on the day's events.

"You may have a difficult time of it tonight," she said. "She's in a lot of pain, both physical and mental. Stay close to her, and page me if it gets bad."

"Will do."

The glass door slid shut with a soft whoosh-thud just as he reached the side of the bed.

"Rainie, are you awake?" he asked softly.

She looked over expectantly in the direction of the voice, but once she identified it, she turned away, disappointed.

"Yes," she whispered, sadly.

"Still hurting?" asked Mark.

"Mm-hm," came the terse reply. Hurting didn't begin to describe it. What kind of pain was it? All kinds, all at once. Aching, throbbing, stabbing, piercing, mind-destroying, decimating. Where? Everywhere. Pain was everywhere.

"Would a massage help? How about if I call Claudia or Jacob, or maybe both?"

No, she didn't want them here. She didn't want anyone here, except the one person who couldn't be here. But the pain… Her fear, for once, was outweighed by her pain.

"Uh-huh. Yes. Anything. _Ohhhh… uhhhhh_…! Please."

While he was waiting, Mark pulled House's bed away from Rainie's to allow the therapists access from both sides.

_No! Bring it back. I need it. I need to know he was there next to me, that he has a place to be when he comes back._

Her eyes pleaded with him to leave the bed alone, but she said nothing as the secure, comforting space to her right became a dark chasm.

About fifteen minutes later, Claudia DuBois arrived. Jacob Yuen had a longer drive to the hospital, and he showed up five minutes after that.

Rainie beat down her worry and her fear, and guardedly allowed them to touch her gently, seeking out the most tender spots and kneading them carefully.

As they worked on her, one on either side, she found herself unable to feel relief from their ministrations. Yes, the pain was starting to subside, but in its place tension gripped her.

When Jacob's thumb hit a particularly delicate area on her left hipbone, she nearly blacked out from the sharp stab.

_Try this! The guard raised a plank and hit the tender spot again. And again. There was nothing she could do to stop it, the incessant fear and the never-ending torment. She'd asked for this, they told her. And she had. She had asked for it. To save Evie, she'd asked for it. She deserved it, they said, and if she ever once tried to escape the punishment she deserved, she knew what would happen. Oh, yes, she knew. _

Without any warning, at least none the therapists saw coming, Rainie began screaming.

"Oh, god! No!"

As they had been instructed to do, Claudia and Jacob pulled back from her abruptly, standing a pace away as they reacted in shock.

"No, don't, _please don't_…!"

Her unseeing eyes focused on someone above her, someone who wasn't there, except in her mind.

A flashback. Just the way Wilson had described them in the team meetings. Up until now, they'd been lucky and hadn't faced one (although they'd heard about the others she'd undergone in the last day), but tonight they saw one up close.

Rainie's hands flew over her head, trying to protect it from the unseen blows. She cried out in pain as if someone were hitting her or kicking her right now, right here in room 304.

Mark quickly paged Jacey, two floors above them, as the scenario continued to play out. More yelling, more flailing, more protective behavior, dwindling at last into whimpers and cries. Her eyes were still wide open and staring fearfully at no one, her body curled up on her right side, twisted so that her back was exposed for the next pounding, as Jacey slipped quietly through the doorway, holding a syringe and heading toward the bed.

*** * * ***

**H**e wasn't ready to go yet. He still had things to do.

With a great effort, he opened his eyes. Well, one of them anyway. He thought it was his left eye, but he wasn't entirely sure. Not that it mattered which eye it was because having it open didn't do a whole lot of good. All he saw were smudgy colors. He closed his eye again.

He couldn't breathe.

_A hand covered his mouth and nose, smothering him. He couldn't catch his breath, couldn't inhale enough air to stay conscious. But he had to stay conscious. He wasn't ready to go yet. He had things to do._

He was floating in the air, suspended over… what?

Sometime later—was it minutes?—hours?—he was rolling forward toward his feet. He struggled to open his eye again, but the effort was too great. Dizzy, he tried to stop himself from falling.

It sounded like whales singing in the ocean and made just about as much sense.

And there was that guy again, the one who wouldn't shut up. Somebody tell him to shut up. Make him stop moaning.

Floating again.

*** * * ***

**P**acing. Pacing. Pacing.

As Wilson turned on the ball of his left foot in his effort to wear a path through the floor, he saw a man in green scrubs coming toward him. His throat closed up and he felt lightheaded.

The man in scrubs came right to him, and laid his right hand on Wilson's left upper arm. Was that good or bad? He tried to remember how he'd broken news to his own patients. If it was bad news, did he lay his hand on their arm? Or if it was good news? He couldn't remember. Which of the three outcomes was it going to be? He had no idea.

"It was touch and go there for a while, but he's out of surgery. He made it through, Dr. Wilson. _Blah blah blah blah_."

Wilson knew he should try to focus on what was being said, but once he heard that House was okay for now, the rest became gibberish.

"Thank god," he said, knowing somewhere deep inside that House the atheist would mock him for uttering those particular words, for thanking a deity House didn't believe existed.

Yet again, he sat with House in recovery, but this time House didn't speak. Wilson thought he saw that blue left eye open a couple of times, but he wasn't sure.

Hours later, when it was clear House was out of immediate danger, when he had been returned to room 304, Wilson remembered his cell phone and the angry calls from John House.

_Page 4 of 4_


	36. Chapter 36: Things to Do

**Chapter 36**

Things to Do…

**W**hoosh. The door to room 304 slid open once again, and a gurney slid through the opening.

The nurse, Mark St. John, looked up.

Greg House was home.

Gently, he was scooped from the gurney and rolled back onto his bed, still separated from Rainie's. Until he recovered enough, several days from now, the two beds would stay apart, rails raised to protect the site of House's surgery and to protect him from the infection that so often killed patients who survived a splenectomy. He'd already been pumped full of antibiotics as a precaution.

Wilson, exhausted, walked into the room, followed by Lisa Cuddy. They spoke quietly in the corner by the couch as House was settled in the bed and hooked up to the monitors.

"You really think he should come back in here?" asked Cuddy.

Wilson nodded. "I wasn't for it in the first place, but whatever happened in here between the two of them was good for them both." He didn't elaborate. "And it's obvious now that his physical problems stemmed from… well, physical problems."

"Okay, if you think it's best."

"I do."

*** * * ***

**M**ark St. John was getting used to hearing Rainie Adler cry. For hours now, he'd heard little else… except for screams and moans of pain.

So when it started up again, he wasn't surprised. What did surprise him was his other patient. The man had just barely survived emergency surgery. He should be knocked out for hours to come. But when Rainie began to cry, House made a noise.

St. John looked up, startled. House's eyes were still shut; he was apparently still doped up from the anesthetic. And yet, he made a noise. St. John wasn't sure, but it sounded to him as if he heard the words, "It's okay. It's okay." But he wouldn't swear to it.

The crying slowed, and Rainie Adler calmed down and went to sleep.

*** * * ***

**W**hen Rainie woke in the night, she began to cry again. But then, she heard two sets of monitors and a comforting sound from off to her right, and she felt herself relaxing. Eyes still closed, she reached out toward House, bashing her hand against the bed rail. Disappointed at first, she realized that, although she couldn't touch him, he was still there.

That was the important thing.

He was still there.

She hadn't killed him. _They_ hadn't killed him.

*** * * * **

**B**lythe House called Wilson back shortly after House returned to room 304, leaving a message on his voicemail. She apologized for her husband's behavior, and asked if she could see her son. Wilson, who had decided to let all his calls go to voicemail for a while, to avoid any more scorching messages from John House, realized he'd have to call her back. Rather than calling directly and risking another confrontation with House's father, he left a message at their hotel for her to call him.

When his cell phone rang this time, he picked up.

"James? It's Blythe House."

"Hi, Blythe." He waited for her to talk.

"When we got back to the hotel, we heard the news about Greg on the TV. Is he okay?"

"So far. He survived the surgery. We won't really know for a day or so if he's going to be all right."

"Oh, I see. Will we be able to visit him?"

Wilson stopped himself from saying the first thing that came into his mind, something that would have been eminently satisfying at that moment, but which would hurt House's mother. He toned it down.

"I think I may be able to arrange for you to see him, Blythe. But I don't think it would be a good idea for your husband to come along."

There was a pause on the other end.

"Because of how he behaved?"

That was as good a reason as any.

"The hospital is very protective of Greg, Blythe. He's been through so much. They don't want anything disruptive around him, anything that might upset him. And I'm sorry to say that your husband's… volatility… is likely to upset him a lot. We just can't allow it."

Another pause.

"I understand. If I came in today, could I see him?"

"How long are you going to be here? Because he's had his spleen removed, he's susceptible to getting infections, and we have to give the antibiotics time to work."

"I'll stay as long as necessary," she said. "I don't want to be burden, but I want to see for myself that…" Her voice caught. "…that he's all right. I need to know that."

I know the feeling, thought Wilson.

"Perhaps in a couple of days," he said.


	37. Chapter 37: The Road to Hell

**Chapter 37**

Paving the Road to Hell…

**B**lythe and John House returned home five days after House's surgery. Before they left, Blythe spent a few hours with her son, who was asleep most of the time, often moaning in pain.

He woke briefly during her second visit, just after Wilson had brought her into the room and settled himself in the corner to read. If she was disconcerted by seeing Rainie asleep in the adjacent bed, she didn't let it show. But then, she seldom let anything show.

After a couple of bad moments two years earlier, Blythe House had learned not to touch her son unexpectedly, so this time she sat primly on a chair pulled up between the two beds while he oriented himself.

Cautiously, she leaned forward slightly when she saw his eyelids open drowsily. She said nothing as he tried to focus his eyes, just sat unmoving until he recognized her.

"Mom." His voice was merely a breathy whisper from lack of use and long-term damage.

"Hi, Greg."

His eyes searched the part of the room he could see.

Wilson watched her looking intently at her only child, an attempt at a smile on her face. Below the edge of the bed, outside House's field of vision, her hands were clasped so tightly that from across the room Wilson could see her white knuckles.

"Your dad's not here," said Blythe, as if answering the question he hadn't asked.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and sighed. Wilson saw relief wash over his features.

"James thought it might be better if he stayed away for now." As she spoke, she dug her manicured fingernails into the palm of her left hand, creating deep red grooves that her son couldn't see. Wilson couldn't tell if this was a reaction to seeing House so ill or a reaction to his quite obvious relief that his father wasn't there.

"Good call," said House.

Wilson took this as a commendation and smiled quietly to himself. From his corner, he observed the physical tension Blythe hid, controlling the face that House saw, making herself appear calm. This has got to be hard for her, he thought, to once again see her son so frail and delicate. Her boy had always been athletic and quick. And right now he could barely raise his head.

That House loved his mother wasn't a question. Wilson could hear it in the tone of his voice when he spoke to her. There was a softness, a deference, that Wilson never heard him use with anyone else.

But what Wilson didn't hear or see on either side was warmth, passion. Both House and his mother held back.

Even before all this, Blythe had always kept part of herself reserved from her son, touching him only for a greeting or goodbye hug, or the occasional pat on the arm. Wilson had never seen spontaneity from her; everything was cautious and pro forma.

Wilson thought about his patients, those who were suffering, those who were scared, and how their families responded to them. Images of crying, hugging, laughing, touching, embracing families drifted through his mind. Somehow, Wilson was reassured when he saw these kinds of physically and emotionally close-knit groups, feeling that patients with those families had a better chance of survival than those without that kind of support.

"I don't know much about what happened—just what was in the news and what James told us on the phone."

"Doesn't matter," he said without emphasis.

Somehow, his offhand reaction upset her carefully controlled composure. Only someone who had been through what he had could toss off a murderous attack and emergency surgery as if they were pulled muscles.

She swallowed, and Wilson saw her jaw clench as she tried to stifle her feelings.

"Of course it matters, dear," she admonished gently, after she regained control, making House look her in the eye. "Everything that happens to you matters to me."

After a quick glance, he broke eye contact with her and looked down, as if to say _I don't know why it should matter, because we both know I'm not worth it._

For years, Wilson had observed House's reactions to compliments and thanks, but this was the first time he saw it clearly for what it was: a complete lack of self-value. Ages ago, Stacy had told him she believed that House didn't think he deserved to be happy, or even to live. For the first time, Wilson realized it was quite literally true. In that flash, he also saw a great number of other things. What had he done? Dear god, what had he done?

Uneasy, he focused on House's mother to distract himself from the unpleasant idea that was formulating in his mind.

How could she deal with it? How on earth could a mother—this mother—cope with the intentional, systematic destruction of her child? She always seemed so serene, thought Wilson, but surely there was something rippling beneath that placid surface.

On top of seeing her son destroyed, Blythe had to deal with his father, who, despite repeated attempts by Wilson and others, never grasped the enormity of the situation, always insisting to whomever would listen that House had deserved whatever senseless devastation had happened to him. And their son believed him. Did Blythe shut down emotionally around John House? Was she immune…? Or maybe just oblivious?

Did she cry over her son, rage at what had happened to him? Or did she just hold it all in? He suspected the latter. He'd never seen her really lose her composure, not once, not even when House was out of his mind. Did those feelings ever come out? Or did she somehow take it all as part of the package that went with having such an unusual child, finding a way to detach herself not only from the horrific trauma he'd gone through but from her son as well?

No matter how much Blythe cared for her son, it was clear that neither of House's parents had ever come close to understanding the extraordinary child they had raised. Mentally and intuitively he sprinted around them both. Spectacularly gifted in language, music, medicine, even mind games, he'd also shown a strength of character in the last six years that was almost beyond comprehension.

And yet, what had he gotten from his parents in the last couple of years? From his father, he got less than nothing: rejection and assault while still in prison, and the assurance that he deserved his fate once he was out. From his mother, he got a mother-hen clucking and a there-there pat on the arm, as if he'd stubbed his toe at school. Where was the understanding, sympathy, acceptance, support and most of all, warmth?

Out of nowhere, Wilson had another moment of insight that caught him unprepared. He had always accepted House's version of his relationship with his parents. Loved his mother; hated his father. Therefore, his mother was good; his father was bad. It was that simple.

But was it that simple? The truth was—and Wilson had trouble acknowledging this idea, even to himself—that despite her obvious feelings for him, House's mother had allowed her brilliant, talented to son to be abused, both emotionally and physically, for his entire life. She let it happen. Well, to be fair, maybe she wasn't aware of the physical abuse, but Wilson had been there on more than one occasion when John House had verbally skewered his son as Blythe sat by, never intervening. After the fact, she justified the behavior by saying, "Oh, Greg. Don't be so hard on your dad. You know he loves you."

In other words, laying the responsibility for the abuse at the feet of the victim.

What if House loved her, not because she was inherently good, but because, unlike his father, she never hurt him actively or intentionally—she only hurt him passively? And because at least she gave him something positive, even if what she doled out was reserved and distant.

They may have raised a brilliant child, but John and Blythe also raised a seriously damaged one. That kind of damage has to start early and needs complicity from both parents. Because Blythe House always seemed so pleasant, and because House loved her, Wilson had chosen not to see her participation in his damaged personality, mentally placing the blame for House's misanthropy on House himself.

In other words, laying the responsibility on the victim.

How many times had his parents, instead of giving him the strong foundation a gifted child needs, purposely done things that stifled his creativity and squashed his spirit—left him feeling that he had no value as a person—and done it "for his own good"?

As this idea stormed through Wilson's mind, he circled back in on the idea he'd been trying to avoid, replaying a vision of himself reflected in the thoughts he was having about John and Blythe. It wasn't an attractive portrait. In fact, it was ugly, and worse than that, he knew it was true.

How many times had he himself judged his friend and tried to manipulate House "for his own good," usually in ways that further damaged his friend's already precarious sense of self-worth, and then rationalized his own behavior as an attempt to curb House's ego or bring him down to earth?

And how many times had those good intentions paved the road to hell as they careened out of control? Every single time. The horrible week of detox. The "clip his wings" fiasco. The refusal, as House's doctor, to deal with his patient's increasing pain and to treat it properly, forcing him into a downward spiral that actually ended with House in jail.

And then, the worst—the months before Cameron's death when he constantly criticized House for his self-destructive behavior, behavior that was in fact a mask to hide Thompson's abuse as House tried desperately to save the people he cared about by offering himself up as a sacrifice.

Wilson had the good grace to be ashamed of himself. Very ashamed.

As he sat there in the corner, his face began to flush with embarrassment over his presumption. Who the hell did I think I was? What gave me the right?

It was suddenly clear to Wilson that everyone in House's life, from childhood forward, had been trying to "fix" him. Well, what if he hadn't actually been broken? What if, instead, he was just different from most people—which he clearly was—and all this "fixing" was what had damaged him? If everyone who loved him felt there was something so wrong with him that he needed fixing, how could he possibly believe he was worth anything?

Feeling a burning behind his eyelids, Wilson glanced up from the floor to see that House, exhausted and ready for his mother to leave, was trying to signal him subtly from across the room.

Snapping out of it, Wilson stood, explained that House needed to rest, and escorted Blythe back out to the reception area.

When Blythe visited again, her son was asleep.

Wilson never knew how she convinced John House to stay at the hotel, how she gave him the news that he wasn't welcome, that he would not be allowed to see his son. He suspected that she blamed it on his angry fit in the lobby. Which was, of course, only part of the story.


	38. Chapter 38: And now what?

**Chapter 38**

And Now What…?

**A** week later, House felt much better. The swelling had gone down dramatically, his head hurt less, his recovery from the splenectomy had gone well and soon he would be able to eat his first actual meal in weeks. Unfortunately, the side effect was that he'd once again lost weight, become more emaciated than he had been for some months.

He'd had no more seizures. His bruises had metamorphosed from that gorgeous Maxfield Parrish indigo into a disgusting smashed-caterpillar greenish-yellow—except for a few deep ones just coming to the surface of his skin and starting the Technicolor process all over again.

Rainie also continued to improve, despite having more migraines, mostly in the middle of the night. Her strength was returning and so was her energy. She no longer slept twenty-three out of twenty-four hours. Now she slept a mere nineteen or twenty. But when she was awake, as long as House was in the room, she seemed alert and communicative. She left the room for her physio appointments now, leaving House alone twice a day for an hour each time.

Nightmares and flashbacks were coming more regularly now, House's as well as Rainie's. Jacey Liu gave them both clonidine to ease their anxiety and reduce their nightmares, although it hadn't really kicked in yet. Of the members of the medical team, Jacey was still by far the one who spent the most time in room 304.

For both of them, constant pain was—and always would be—a tragic side effect of their experiences. Synthia Little, the pain management specialist, had started spending time with them every day, developing treatment plans.

Linda McAllister visited daily, checking in on House and getting to know Rainie. Linda had a gruff exterior, not unlike her patient, but a tender heart, and seeing these two fractured souls tore at her. Often, after a visit, she would hold herself together long enough to get to the ladies' room and lock herself in a stall. Then she would cry. Sometimes for an hour or two. But still she came by every day.

The medical team met occasionally as a group, but mostly they came and went as needed. House was in no shape for further surgeries for a while yet, but Karen Langley had been talking to Rainie about scheduling an operation on her right leg, which should begin to help her mobility.

Dr. Yeung, the hand surgeon, had indeed joined the team, and he told both House and Rainie that he could definitely improve the functioning of their hands, which was such a relief to House he almost broke down. What Yeung didn't tell them was that, when he saw House and Rainie, his first reaction was an almost uncontained excitement about tackling the challenge of reconstructing their hands. Glee was probably not what these two people wanted to see on his face.

When it seemed safe enough, House insisted that the beds be scooted back together. Both patients seemed to feel much more secure in close proximity to each other, and, despite the weirdness of the situation, no one had been able to come up with a good reason why they shouldn't be able to sleep together if it gave them comfort.

Evan had been back many times, and finally got to meet Dr. House, a man whose life had fascinated him for a long time. Very different now from the man he saw mumbling on the witness stand two years ago, House was, when he wasn't sleeping, slyly witty, pithy and sarcastic. Underlying that exterior was an anguished man, ever-present pain tight around his eyes, who exhibited tender compassion and genuine fondness for Rainie, which endeared him to Evan.

Slowly, Rainie began to open up to Evan, and he saw faint glimmers of the woman she used to be. They talked about people they both knew, what had happened in the newsroom, in the city and in politics since she'd been gone—the safe subjects. But they never talked about what had happened. And they never ever talked about Jeff or Evie.

There were other visitors, too. Some of Rainie's acquaintances from _The New York Times_ and a few former school friends stopped by every so often, always announced beforehand. It was apparent from their expressions that they found the changes in Rainie profoundly disturbing; they couldn't look at her, and could barely speak to her. Over time, they just stopped visiting. Once their visits ended, no other friends, other than Evan, came to see her.

Chase came up every couple of days, occasionally asking if House was up to providing a medical opinion on their latest case. Sometimes he was; other times he was not. Cuddy stopped in every day, never staying long and always moving cautiously. Wilson, of course, was practically a third roommate, often sleeping on the couch in the corner.

The flowers were long gone—just as well considering their recipients had never noticed them.

By each bed were tables covered in books and periodicals. On Rainie's side were copies of the _Atlantic Monthly_ and _American Heritage_, several biographies, mostly of creative artists and scientists, as well as a thick book about the Titanic and another, equally fat, about the Lusitania, plus a history of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire and a copy of Colette's _Claudine en ménage_ in French. On House's side, as expected, there were medical journals and books, but also, unexpectedly, were a novel written in Japanese, an Egyptian play and a book of Portuguese love poems. Next to them sat a history of 17th-century firearms. On each side of the bed, a pair of glasses was tossed casually on top of the stacks of books and magazines.

In the background, music played quietly, the sound emanating from House's side of the bed. Feeling that if House were going to take up residence at the hospital he might as well make himself at home, Wilson had bought him an iPod and speakers. The day after that, he picked up House's laptop from home and brought it in. House and Rainie had spent several days downloading an eclectic mix of music they both liked: 1920s jazz, bluegrass, more jazz, Scandinavian and Scottish folk songs, polkas, bossa nova, still more jazz, blues and French café songs. The first song House chose to listen to was Oscar Peterson's "Hymn to Freedom," which, it turned out, was a favorite of Rainie's as well.

Neither of them talked about the pain. It was better that way. Talking about it just drew attention to it, and attention just reminded them of how much it hurt. Better to talk about anything else.

They had talked, however, about how much they both hated it when the first thing out of someone's mouth was, "How are you feeling today?" or worse yet, "How are _we_ feeling today?" It was hard to remain civil, and so tempting to reply, "How the fuck do you think I'm feeling?" or "The same way I feel every day," or "I'd trade five minutes of being you just to see the look on your face when you spent five minutes being me. Then you'll know better than to ask how I feel."

Mark St. John, no longer needed as often, went back to his regular duties, as did the security guard at the door to room 304.

In her office, Cuddy finally took a deep breath, praying this nightmare was finally over.

Wilson slept—for nearly three days.

*** * * ***

**H**ouse's first meal off the IV, a bowl of chicken noodle soup, went about as well as Rainie's adventures with scrambled eggs. His mangled hands, stiff and weak with disuse, had been unable to handle fine motor skills for several years, and now, he could barely pick up a utensil. He dropped his spoon more often than he scooped up any noodles with it.

Frustrated at one point, he considered grabbing a handful of soup, but the messiness factor deterred him. Instead, he flung the spoon across the room, startling Rainie when it bounced off a cabinet and clattered to the floor.

She screamed and dove under the covers.

"Sorry," he muttered through gritted teeth as he glared at the recalcitrant soup.

"You scared me!" she complained, once she felt safe enough to peek her head back out from under the blanket.

Still frustrated, House replied, "I _said_ I was sorry."

"Not good enough," she said, now annoyed. "I about jumped through the roof! At least warn me if you're going to throw something." She glared at him.

"Okay!" He glared back.

Wilson slid through the doorway during this interchange to find House and Rainie Adler staring each other down.

The scene struck Wilson funny, so he snickered quietly. The fact that these two battered people felt safe enough with each other to get annoyed had to be a good sign.

"What's so funny?!" they yelled simultaneously, turning their attention toward him.

"If you two don't know, I'm really not going to tell you."

They glared at him, then at each other. About this time, Rainie saw the humor in the two of them behaving like a couple of children, and finally, House did, too.

*** * * * **

**T**he next day, after having a quiet lunch with Cuddy, Joe Roberts came to visit.

When he came into the room, he found House propped up, turned toward Rainie, who was sitting up facing him from her side of the bed. The two were talking quietly. They stopped when he entered.

Settling himself in a chair on House's side of the room, he was relieved to find House much improved, because he had news for both patients.

"Let me get right to the point. This isn't going to be easy for either of you."

House glanced at Rainie. Her body was tense. She sat very still, her eyes anxious as she looked at House, occasionally darting small glances toward Roberts. House wrapped her close to him in his left arm.

Roberts paused, momentarily diverted by the interactions between the two. He didn't mean it to be a dramatic pause, but the effect was the same as if he'd planned it to create maximum suspense.

"I thought you were getting right to the point. So get to it," groused House brusquely, when he had waited long enough. Rainie wasn't the only one who was anxious.

"Sorry," said Roberts, dropping his eyes. "There are some legal proceedings coming up very soon that involve the two of you. Ms. Adler, we haven't wanted to bother you with this up till now, but you need to know that there will be several trials involving the prison staff, and you will undoubtedly be called as a witness."

She nodded, saying nothing, a twinge of fear creeping into her eyes. House glanced at her again, tightening his hold around her shoulders.

"Dr. House, you may be called as a medical witness in some of those cases as well, plus Dr. Pevey's trial will be starting shortly, and both of you need to testify."

"Not surprised," said House. "I've been expecting it." He looked at Rainie, who was shivering. "We've already discussed it."

Roberts continued. "I didn't want you to find this out by getting subpoenas or through the press. Unfortunately, our legal system makes it difficult for crime victims. Dr. House has already been through this once before, and I can't tell you both how sorry I am that it's happening again. I would like nothing better than for the two of you to be able to avoid the pain of confronting your attackers. But that's not how our system works, I'm afraid."

"It's kind of you to tell us this way," said Rainie in a very small voice. Then she turned her head away abruptly and stared at the wall to her left.

Roberts' voice got softer. He hated—really hated—having to tell her this part.

"I need to say something else, too."

Her eyes flitted quickly toward him and then back to the wall where she stared unblinking at a photograph of a flowing river.

"Ms. Adler, we've never discovered who killed your little girl."

He heard a slight, sharp intake of breath from Rainie's direction.

When she didn't react, he went on.

"I'm sure it was some of Thompson's people, but we just don't know. There were no witnesses and there was no physical evidence. Unless someone confesses, we'll probably never find out who did it."

He saw her breath grow ragged as she struggled to hold back her emotions.

"I'm… sorry." It sounded inadequate. "I… I wish I could say we'd caught them and they'll be punished. But I can't." He paused, watching her reaction. "I guess the only good news about it is that you won't have to go to court and face them."

She opened her mouth as if to reply, but then closed it again, swallowing and inhaling sharply as she blinked back tears. Her eyes slowly closed, and he saw her bite down hard on her lower lip.

He stood up.

"Well, I'll get going. I'll be back when I have more details."

As he left, he saw House staring grimly at Rainie's back, his right hand clenching, or at least clenching as much as it could.


	39. Chapter 39: How Do You Deal With It?

**Chapter 39**

How Do You Deal With It…?

"**G**reg…?"

The room was dark, and the two had been trying to sleep for several minutes. Now that they were both feeling better physically, restlessness sometimes replaced exhaustion.

Rainie was having one of her bad days. Physical therapy had been especially painful and had set off flashbacks, and a visit from Evan later in the day had reminded her too much of her previous life, leaving her sobbing.

"What?"

There was a long pause. House shifted awkwardly in the bed, turning himself toward her.

She spoke quietly. "I have to know. Does this ever get any better?"

If House were a different person, he might have placated her by saying yes, just to make her feel a little happier now. But House was incapable of that kind of social deception. Or he might have pretended he didn't know what she meant, but he didn't seem to be good at pretending with her.

"Some of it does," he replied gently, after thinking it over. "The pain ebbs and flows—some days it's not so bad. Other times, it's literally soul-obliterating. The fear does seem to fade away over time… except when something triggers it. The anger—well, I'm still working on that… and the other feelings… frustration, disappointment, sadness…" His voice drifted off. "Mostly, I look at each minute as it comes. I can't seem to think very far ahead, and I sure as hell don't want to look back. Even thinking about good times can be…"—a momentary flash of Cameron laughing in his office—"…intolerable."

"How do you deal with it?" Her eyes, accustomed now to the darkness, searched his face for answers.

"I don't."

He smiled bitterly and went on.

"Not very well, anyway."

Somehow he had gone from where he started weeks ago to this. He'd gotten comfortable enough opening up to Rainie about his feelings that he'd almost forgotten how unsure he was at the beginning.

"Sorry. No words of wisdom."

"That's okay." At least now she knew what to expect, and she knew that some of it might get better with time. That was something.

*** * * *****  
**

**W**hile Rainie was out at physio, Wilson usually stopped in for his late afternoon checkup. Sometimes he found House watching television—usually some god-awful drivel—sometimes sleeping, but most often reading. Today he was reading a biography of Colette, which Wilson was pretty sure he'd seen on Rainie's table a few days earlier.

He sat down at House's side as House slipped a long strip of notepaper between the pages to mark his place and set the book back on the table, dropping his glasses on top. Another small table had been set up nearby, covered with notes for a report on Rainie's condition and treatment.

"How goes life in the outside world?" House asked. "Don't tell me. People come, people go. Nothing ever happens."

Their conversations usually consisted of chitchat, verbal sparring and gossip. Since Pevey's attack, Wilson had avoided any serious topics.

It seemed a little odd, after taking care of House for nearly two years, to be at least temporarily relieved of that duty. Wilson knew his own modus operandi was that he needed to be needed, and so he missed the very responsibility that he'd sometimes resented while it was ongoing.

That same sense of responsibility had now shifted to House, in his dealings with Rainie. Very often, especially at night, when they didn't realize he was in the room, Wilson listened as the two wounded souls talked. He would never have believed it possible under any circumstances, but the House he heard in the wee small hours of the morning was a House who was emotionally open and exposed.

There were times when Wilson felt, well, jealous, as he eavesdropped. Was this something House was able to do only with Rainie, or would it spill over into other relationships—his, for example?

"So, how're you doing?" he asked, venturing into the personal. "I really want to know."

House rolled his eyes. "Are you going to get all 'my baby boy has left home and I want to make sure he's eating okay?' on me?"

Wilson smiled. "Yeah, I guess I am."

"Well, you heard about my attempt at feeding myself. I've suggested that in the future if they think I should have soup, they should get me a sippy cup. Much less mess."

"Apart from the food…?"

House looked away, and set his jaw.

"I take it, then, that you're not going to say?"

House continued to look at an invisible spot on the bed. Finally, he sighed and looked back.

"Truth is, I don't know how I'm doing. I'm… enormously frustrated. Which I guess is normal. If anything about this could be called normal."

This was pretty major, thought Wilson. House talking about his feelings with him at all was seismic. There'd been a brief period, when House first came back to work a year ago, when he'd talked a little about what happened. But once he began to heal a little more, feel a little more secure at work, he'd clammed up again.

"Frustrated why?"

Another long silence.

"…When I… When it all started, I couldn't believe it… It was so unreal… I couldn't believe it would last… Every day, I'd wake up thinking it was just a nightmare, and then I'd look down and see another bruise, or remember…"

Or remember… _No, can't go there. Really can't go there_.

Silence.

For a fraction of a second, Wilson was able to put himself in House's place, imagining the terror of those experiences. But the feelings were so overwhelming—even spending an instant contemplating what he'd been through was too much. Wilson quickly backed off from the thoughts.

House swallowed. His eyes began to unfocus and his breathing grew shallow.

"Later, it became… it became what my life was… There was nothing else. No past. Certainly no future. Just… that…"

His voice was even more quiet than usual.

"_After_… you… well, you know about after."

Wilson nodded.

"Remember ages ago you said to me, 'Dying is easy. Living is hard?'"

Wilson hadn't thought about that forgotten conversation in years.

"You have no idea… no idea how right you were… It's _so _hard… It's unbearably hard… No idea…"

His voice drifted off.

A little alarmed, Wilson glanced at House's face. But what he saw there was not the look he feared, but instead a puzzling mixture of desolation and determination.

Very quietly, House continued.

"When the leg… happened… I didn't want to live damaged. I was angry, and kept thinking about what I'd lost. I didn't want to go on. When I was in prison… I really didn't want to go on, but I… didn't have any choice…"

At this, Wilson closed his eyes. Didn't have any choice. But Wilson knew different. He knew that House had, indeed, had a choice—the choice to let himself die and end all his suffering. But it was a choice he wasn't willing to make, as tempting as it must have been. Instead, he chose to go on so that Wilson and others could also. He was lying here, facing a life full of interminable physical pain and emotional anguish so that Wilson could sit by his side. Wilson felt his chest tighten and his eyes begin to fill.

"I had no energy to think about the past… The present was too… all-consuming. Now…"

He paused again.

Wilson stopped breathing.

"Now… I want to go on…"

Thank God, thought Wilson, exhaling.

"…but I just don't know how… Until now, I've never let myself look… at what this has cost me. For the first time… oh, god, Wilson... for the first time, it's hitting me what I've lost… I detest the fact that I'm wallowing in it… the things I'll never be able to do again… the time wasted… If I'd known back when the leg happened how I'd long for what I had even then… This sense of grief is… it's almost overpowering sometimes…"

House's breath caught. Wilson looked at his face, and saw his eyes welling up.

"House… I… don't know what to say. It's useless to say I wish you could have your old life back. I do, of course, but wishing won't make it so… You know I'm here… I'm always here."

House nodded slowly, his head bent low.

Wilson laid his hand on House's arm. House looked back at him, his blue eyes brimming.

The emotions that he'd so desperately wanted House to let out were now too much for Wilson to deal with. It hurt so much to think about what his friend had been through, he found to his surprise that he couldn't handle it.

So he changed the subject.

"There's something I need to say to you, House. I hope this is the right time."

"What?" House glanced up, suddenly suspicious.

"I need to apologize to you."

This brought House up short. Why would Wilson need to apologize to him? Wilson, who had been with him, protecting him, caring for him, sometimes even feeding and bathing him for two years? Why should he apologize?

"What on earth for?" asked House, beginning to pull himself together again.

Wilson was the one who looked away this time.

"Because…" Damn. This was more difficult than he'd thought. How on earth could he word this? "…Because I kept trying to make you into someone you're not."

House looked vaguely confused. He was too clever and too perceptive not to suspect at least part of what Wilson was getting at, but it was like having two-thirds of a jigsaw puzzle. It looked like a big white building, but he couldn't tell if it was the U.S. Capitol or the Taj Mahal.

"Let me try again. I haven't always given you credit for being able to run your own life and make your own decisions. In the past, I tried to manipulate you… to make you behave in ways _I_ thought you should."

Ah. Now he got it.

"That's it? That's your big apology? For christsakes, Wilson, I knew that."

It didn't matter that House already knew. Wilson couldn't stop now. He had to tell House how sorry he was.

"Every single time, it backfired. Every time I tried to change you, make you more… I don't know—socially acceptable—it backfired, and I made things worse."

"Part of that was me, you know," said House, bluntly. "I have been known to be self-destructive on occasion, and do tend to get a little stubborn."

A little?

If Wilson had looked up at that moment, he'd have seen an unusual sight: House looking at him with bemused tenderness.

But Wilson didn't look up. He just kept going. "What this comes down to is that it was none of my business. You are who you are, and no one as screwed up as I am has any business judging you. You've proved you're a better man than most, and I wish I could have just accepted you as you are. I'm really sorry, House."

House's attitude suddenly changed. Unable to accept Wilson's assessment of him as "a better man than most," House now eyed him coldly. "Are you done?" he asked.

Wilson nodded. He'd known that House was likely to reject his apology, partly for the very reason Wilson felt he had to make it. House was so sure there was something inherently wrong with him, he couldn't deal with the idea that he should be accepted as he actually was… or that his years being tortured to save other people's lives should somehow make him special in some way. His reaction therefore wasn't much of a surprise. The surprising part was that he'd let Wilson say it at all.

"Fine. Then get over it. Sorry to disappoint you, but your little machinations are meaningless in the life I'm living now. It's primordial history. For me, it's part of that past I'm grieving over. Leave it be. Please… just leave it be."

But Wilson couldn't leave it be. He went home that night, consumed by guilt, and poured himself a scotch. Then another and another until he poured himself into bed.


	40. Chapter 40: A Vortex of Pain

**A Vortex of Pain…**

**H**is entire being was sucked into a vortex of pain. No thought, no rationality, no yesterday, no today, no tomorrow. Just now. And the unbearable now lasted throughout eternity.

It was the soul-obliterating pain he'd warned Rainie about. It had started in the middle of the night, for no reason he could put his finger on. Perhaps a front was moving through. Perhaps they'd lowered his morphine dosage. Perhaps didn't matter. All that mattered was the pain. Increasingly intolerable pain.

At first, half-awake, he'd felt his headache escalating. Then the pain radiated down the right side of his face, through the broken cheek and on down his neck toward his shoulder and elbow. It was a dull ache, a sharp stab, a throb, a shock, a lightning bolt. By the time it reached his right thigh and headed toward his left side, he was moaning loudly.

Rainie, tucked under his left arm as she often was, opened her eyes and looked at his face, contorted as he swallowed a scream. She reached toward the bed rail behind her and pressed the nurse's call button.

The pain was so agonizing and so all-encompassing that House thought he could feel his nerve endings crackle with it. When Rainie, in an attempt to soothe him, stroked his face, the pain of her delicate touch was so intense, it was as if she'd whipped him. He had to close his eyes and clamp his teeth together to resist flinging her off the bed just to get away from the sensation.

"No!" he said through gritted teeth. "Don't touch me!"

"Greg…" She looked alarmed as she pulled away.

"Don't." He started to rock, away from the pillows and back toward them. Then he thrust his head back deep into the pillows, gripping the blanket as well as he was able to. His moaning got louder. His mouth opened and a roar came out from deep in his chest.

Where was that nurse!? Rainie pressed the call button again. She had pulled as far away from him as she could, wedging herself against her bed rail as she watched helplessly.

She looked out through the glass door and saw no one at the nurse's station.

It was getting worse. His moans turned to yells and now to low screams.

Somebody had to do something. She crawled down to the end of the bed, and tried to climb out, her legs shaky and unsure. Looking down was a big mistake—she hadn't realized just how high off the ground she was. Turning around to face the bed, trying to control her nerves, she slid backwards off the end of the bed, slipping and crashing to the floor with a sharp bump, the sudden drop painfully yanking out her IV.

Surveying the expanse of room between the bed and the door, she saw there was nothing to hold onto, nothing to help her keep her balance, but someone had to do something. It ripped through her to listen to him. As few others could, she understood intimately what that kind of pain felt like. Her empathy for him was so powerful, she couldn't hold back tears. She had to get help. Somebody had to help him.

Using the bed to pull herself upright, she took a few tentative, shuffling steps toward the door, calling out for help, hoping someone would hear her—or him—before she had to go very far. There was no response.

Suddenly, her left leg crumpled under her, and she went down hard face first onto the cold floor, her left cheek hitting with a _smack_. Behind her, she could still hear House's cries.

Stunned, she shook it off and pulled herself forward, using her arms to drag her legs along the floor, continuing as she did so to call for help. As she reached the door, she realized she'd have to stand again to open it. Eyeing the indented handle, which seemed a mile away, she took a breath, and pushed herself up on her knees. The effort and the pain of resting her weight on her injured legs were almost too much. She could feel herself beginning to black out.

No! she said to herself, trying to rise up high enough to get the door handle. Finally, after several failed attempts, she touched it. Straining even further, she was able to grab hold and pull herself up.

Panting with the exertion, she managed to get the door open, just in time to see an orderly coming down the hall.

"Help! You've got to help!" she cried. Startled, he turned and saw the female patient from room 304 crying out from the doorway just before she slid to the floor. He could hear screams coming from inside the room.

Seemingly within seconds, medical personnel appeared, running from all directions. A couple of nurses lifted Rainie up and helped her back into the room and onto the couch, where she lay sobbing. Someone paged Synthia Little, the pain doctor, who lived twenty minutes away. Someone else checked House's morphine drip and discovered the root of the problem—it had malfunctioned. He'd had no pain medication for who knows how long.

Through it all, he continued to cry out.

By the time Synthia Little arrived, the vortex had disgorged House's being, and the pain was beginning to recede, leaving House whimpering and exhausted.

Rainie, too, was exhausted from her excursion to find help, and had a few new bruises to show for her trouble. She was lifted gently back onto the bed, where she lay dazed and crying as her IV was replaced and her medication adjusted.

Slowly, the room emptied until once again it was just the two of them.

As House's senses swimmingly returned, he gazed at Rainie, lying next to him, pale and breathing heavily, the large bruise on her left cheek already turning dark purple, her eyes closed, a few tears still seeping from her eyelids.

Reaching out in her direction, House touched her lightly on the arm. Her eyelids flickered open.

His disconcertingly blue eyes searched her hazel ones. "Hey… thanks," he whispered.

She gave him a concerned smile and reached over to touch his face.

After a time she said, "You'd have done the same for me."

"What makes you think so?" he asked unexpectedly, as a steely glimmer of his sardonic self returned. "I am not a nice person."

Her smile relaxed, reaching her eyes, which were still locked on his.

"Don't bullshit me," she said, challenging him to prove to her wrong. "Don't forget, I know who you really are."

Staggered, he felt emotionally naked and totally exposed. How did she manage to cut through his defenses like that? This wouldn't do.

"I'm _not _a nice person," he insisted, attempting to regain his old reputation and persona.

"Define nice," she said, and he saw a wicked gleam in her eye.


	41. Chapter 41: Judgment Day

Judgment Day…

**C**uddy stared at the piece of paper in her hands. Then she exhaled a perturbed breath and shook her head with annoyance.

"At 1:53 a.m., patient S. Lantz in room 315 crashed, needing immediate assistance. After nearly an hour attempting to resuscitate the patient, patient expired at 2:50 a.m. Medical personnel left the room at 3:04 a.m.

"At 2:07 a.m., patient D. Alencar in room 321 crashed, needing immediate assistance. After several attempts, the patient was resuscitated. Medical personnel left the room at 2:55 a.m.

"At 2:13 a.m., orderly Jim Padma saw patient R. Adler from room 304 standing in the doorway calling out for help because patient G. House was in pain. Every available medical personnel not already involved with the other two patients was enlisted. By 2:48 a.m., the problem, a faulty valve on the IV, had been resolved. Both patients were examined. Patient G. House had an elevated heart rate, which decreased once the IV was fixed, and nausea from pain, which also decreased once the IV was fixed. Patient R. Adler had sustained serious bruises to the left cheek in a fall, as well as a slight sprain to the right ankle. By 3:24 a.m., both patients had been treated and were resting comfortably. Medical personnel left the room at 3:32 a.m."

Cuddy shook her head again, pursed her lips and glared at the report. What was she supposed to do, keep a 24-hour watch over House's room? She couldn't help it if two patients on the third floor crashed at close to the same time. And yet she was furious over what had happened last night.

The logic of how it came to be didn't stop Cuddy from worrying it like a dog with a sock. Should she have more nurses on duty? No, her budget wouldn't allow it, and besides, this was the only time in seven years that three emergencies had occurred on the same floor at essentially the same time in the middle of the night. No statistical justification for an increase.

Should she have kept Mark St. John on as a private duty nurse in room 304? Again, no. The two patients were doing well enough that it was a waste of resources to give them a private nurse.

Face it, she thought to herself, it was a fluke. A horrible fluke. Let it go. You couldn't have done anything to prevent it. Let it go.

But could she let it go? No, of course not.

No pain meds for a man in his condition—the thought of the excruciating anguish he must have been feeling almost stopped her breath. How bad was the pain that he was actually screaming for several minutes? And then Rainie's intrepid journey to find help. What had she gone through to get to the door? The injuries on her body told at least some of the story. What kind of determination did it take to try to walk when your legs were so badly damaged they couldn't possibly sustain you?

Cuddy sighed. Then she put her elbows on the desk, and leaned her head forward, pressing the heels of her hands hard against the aching bones over her eyes.

**D**evi Rajghatta looked up as Chase entered the room. _He's been to see House again_, she thought. He always had that faraway, unsettled look on his face when he'd seen House, as if something had him disturbed in a fundamental way.

"Hi," she said. "Coffee?"

"Er, what? Sure. Thanks."

"How's Dr. House?"

"What? Oh. Better." As the fog in his mind dispersed, he shook his head slightly and focused on her.

"You should come up and see him."

"Do you think he's up to it?"

"Yeah. He's looking way better. He's even solved a couple of our cases." He drifted again. "I wish I knew how his mind worked. After everything he's been through, he can still do it."

Devi nodded silently. When she first started working with House, she had heard so many stories, she didn't know what to believe. He was crazy. He was devious. He was a drug addict. He was lazy. He was a genius. And then, because of what he'd been through, she heard other things, things that didn't bear reflection.

What she actually saw when she met him was a frighteningly frail man, trying desperately to hold onto some semblance of his former life. Yes, he was certainly acerbic, and his methods at times phenomenally unconventional, but he was ultimately right so much more often than he was wrong. And he was so obviously in pain—both physical and mental—that she couldn't reconcile the man she'd come to know with the one she'd heard about.

Now, after nearly a year, she understood why Chase and Foreman had felt so strongly about working with him again. When Evans was in charge of the department, she'd never experienced anything like the rush of excitement she felt with House as he began to unravel the mystery… and as he forced her to expand her own abilities to try to solve it herself. She now knew why a fellowship with House had once been considered such a prize.

She also knew that he'd once been very different, but she hadn't known that man. It was as if some elements of the equation had been removed by the time she came along.

Chase was blowing on his coffee as he stared out the window.

"May I ask you something?"

He turned his head in her direction.

"Sure. Shoot."

"If it's none of my business, tell me."

He looked at her a little more sharply now, turning his body toward her.

"Do you find it a little uncomfortable talking to him? I mean, even after he's been back at work all this time?" She wasn't sure if she'd phrased it the way she really meant it, but it would have to do.

He came over and sat down across from her, gripping the handle of the coffee mug as he spoke.

"I'm not sure uncomfortable is the right word, Devi."

She waited, pretty sure he'd go on. He did.

"I don't know how to explain it, really, but I always had mixed feelings about House. Working with him was a chance of a lifetime for me, but then he could be such a manipulative, lying bastard. I admired his genius, but—God!—sometimes I just wanted to wring his neck. Every so often, I guess, I'd realize that his insane personality was a pose, a defense. But mostly I just tried to steer clear and do my job."

"And now?"

He looked over at her and shrugged.

"Now, well… What do you do when you find out the infuriating, manipulative, selfish bastard has, dear God, done what this man's done? That he quite lit'rally saved my life. That to do it, he's allowed himself to get turned into… _this_?

Devi squirmed slightly at the thought of "…_this_." _This_ was obviously the man she'd come to know, the man she'd actually come to care about. She sort of liked the man she knew, and she wasn't so sure she'd have liked the other one.

"So, knowing what he was like before, do you find it hard to talk to him?" she asked, getting to her real question.

Chase looked away for a moment before answering.

"Hell, yeah," he said, finally. "I have to behave as if everything's as it was, that I don't really like him a whole lot, that he's a pain in the ass… when what I want to do is hug him until we both start to cry, and then fall down on the floor and thank him… thank him for what he was willing to do for me. Of course, he'd be mortified and never allow that… so I do what I do. Pretend along with him that things are like they were.

"You can't imagine how it feels to know that someone has willingly gone through what he's gone through to save your life… and then to have to face the results of it every day. I see the marks on his body, and I know they are there because of me. It's probably the most intense emotion I've ever felt… and yet I have to treat him casually and professionally. God damn!—it's hard. Every time I talk to him, it's so incredibly hard to keep things on that level. Give the guy some dignity.

"Foreman says the same thing. He told me it just about kills him to have to call House an ass now. Yeah, he might have behaved like an ass—and believe me, he _really_ behaved like an ass—but clearly there was someone very different underneath it all. I still can't get my head around it.

"The whole thing shook up my world," he went on. "He got so strange toward the end, and then Cameron…" he let the thought hang in the air. "When he came back, it was _so_ unbelievably awful to see him like this. As much as he'd annoyed me before, I'd give anything to have that guy back again. And yet, in some ways, I like how he is now better."

He looked up at her.

"Does that answer your question?"

**S**hopping was in order. One afternoon, two days later and another two days before House and Rainie were due to testify at the first trial, Cuddy and Wilson showed up in room 304 weighted down by bags and boxes. As they came into the room, they found House dozing and Rainie staring at the television.

"Christmas?" asked Rainie tentatively, not really sure of the month or the date.

"Close enough," replied Cuddy, bringing her parcels over to Rainie's side of the bed.

Wilson headed toward House, who was beginning to stir.

Lifting his left eyebrow quizzically, House eyed the packages with suspicion.

"Shall I start?" asked Cuddy of Wilson.

"Be my guest," he volunteered.

Rainie, clearly intrigued, tried to peek into the bags at her side.

"No fair," said Cuddy.

"What's this about?" asked House.

"You'll find out," answered Wilson, deferring to Cuddy.

"We know you haven't given much thought to clothes for a long while, and, well, you're going to have to go to court, so…"

With a flourish, she reached into one of the bags and pulled out a dark blue dress cut along conservative lines.

"I had to guess at the size and I have no idea what styles you like, so if you hate all of these, just let me know and I'll return them for something you prefer," she said. "My gift to you."

Rainie's expression said it all. She'd purposely avoided looking at herself in the mirror, afraid of what she'd find looking back at her. But back _before_, she had loved buying clothes, and was known around _The Times_ for her eccentric and artistic flair. The blue dress wasn't what she might have picked out for herself, but she was moved by the gesture.

"And I gather those are blue dresses for me?" House said to Wilson.

"But of course," said Wilson, lifting up for House's approval a blue dress that looked remarkably like a gray jacket. Fortunately for him, he already knew House's taste. He'd picked up an assortment of shirts, jackets, slacks and a few t-shirts. And one tie.

For the next half hour, Cuddy brought forth a collection of skirts, blouses, dresses, shoes, stockings, even jeans, as well as some very expensive lingerie. For a moment, Cuddy hesitated about showing off the underwear, but if Rainie and House were going to share a room, modesty would have to go.

Cuddy had also purchased makeup for Rainie, figuring she might want to make an attempt to cover some of the scars and now the new bruises on her face.

Of the dozen or so outfits Cuddy had purchased, only one item really appealed to Rainie, but she was enjoying the whole endeavor. Feeling surprisingly eager, almost as if it really were Christmas, she asked Cuddy's help in getting to the bathroom to check the sizes. Wilson offered an arm, and the two of them were able to get her across the room, half-carrying her there. Once she was inside, Cuddy held her up while Wilson went back out to grab a chair for her to sit on.

She had been small to begin with, and years of near-starvation had reduced Rainie's frame to a size zero. Cuddy had a good eye for such things, however, so the clothes fit reasonably well.

What Cuddy hadn't counted on was her own emotional reaction to seeing Rainie's body. She figured as a doctor and as one of the few people who had seen some of House's injuries, she would be immune. But when she helped Rainie off with her hospital gown, she found herself riveted by the marks on the frail body. It was an effort not to break down, even more of an effort to hide her reaction from Rainie, who, it was evident, was self-conscious enough about letting anyone see her.

In the meantime, Wilson helped House go through his new clothes. Knowing House had no interest in such things, but recognizing that it was important for him to present himself well in court—and that he'd lost so much weight, again, his old clothes would droop—Wilson needled him until he had tried on everything except the slacks, and those only because it would be too difficult for him to get out of the bed and attempt to stand.

In the bathroom, Rainie reached for the item that most appealed to her, a vibrant rainbow-hued flowing skirt.

Cuddy noted how Rainie's eyes lit up when she saw it.

"You know what?" she said, as tactfully as she could. "It's so hard to choose clothes for another woman. I have an idea. How about if we bring you a laptop and you can go online and choose what you'd like? Would that work?"

Rainie looked up at her, appreciatively. She hadn't wanted to admit that she didn't care for most of the items Cuddy had picked out.

"I—I don't know what to say. I'm so…_so_… grateful to you."

"Nonsense," said Cuddy in her best head-of-the-hospital manner. "You need clothes, and they might as well be what you like. And it gives me pleasure. There's nothing I like more than shopping for clothes." Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "I just wish I could do more."

She thought back to the moment when she'd found out Rainie Adler had been arrested for murder, and how her first thought was heartbreaking disappointment, because she'd so hoped Rainie would be able to help House. And now, after seeing the broken body and knowing how she had suffered those injuries, Cuddy felt in awe of the woman before her, the woman who had lost everything in her quest for the truth. Yes, buying Rainie new clothes was the least she could do.

Overwhelmed by her own feelings, Rainie sat quietly on the chair for a moment, the rainbow-hued skirt draped across her lap.

"Let's get you dressed in something—give the boys a show," said Cuddy. "And we'll start with this great skirt. How's that?"

Rainie nodded.

They found a simple black silk shell that accented the colors in the skirt and a loose, open-weave jacket to finish off the outfit. Cuddy helped her on with the clothes, trying to keep her sitting for most of the process. She'd have to go barefoot for now—the shoes were far too large and would have to be exchanged before the trial.

"Oh, one more thing," said Cuddy, rooting around in the bottom of one of the bags. "Again, we'll replace these if they don't suit you, but I thought you should have some jewelry, too." After opening a small box, she placed a simple pair of 24-caret gold hoop earrings and a gold chain in Rainie's trembling hand.

This was too much, and Rainie began to cry. It had been so long since anyone had given her a gift—or, until very recently, even treated her decently—she couldn't handle it. Her shoulders shook as she leaned on Cuddy, loud sobs pouring forth as she held onto the Dean of Medicine.

Wilson had been in the middle of a long-winded story about who was dating whom in the ER when House suddenly shushed him. He saw the concern on House's face several seconds before he realized Rainie was crying.

"See if she's all right," ordered House, as he looked toward the bathroom door. "Now."

Wilson crossed the room and knocked on the door.

"Everything okay in there?" he asked.

The sobs broke at the sound of his voice.

Through the door, he heard, "Just a little girl talk," from Cuddy, taking charge.

_Thanks_, mouthed Rainie, taking deep gulping breaths to settle her emotions.

_No problem_, mouthed Cuddy back to her.

Wilson looked at House and shrugged his shoulders.

About half an hour later, the door reopened. Guessing that Rainie wouldn't want to see her reflection and that her shaky hands probably wouldn't work very well for such things anyway, Cuddy had applied her makeup. Then she brushed Rainie's hair—which badly needed a good haircut—and slid the necklace over Rainie's head. It gleamed against the black shell. The final touch—the gold earrings.

"Ready?" she asked.

"I-I guess so," replied Rainie nervously.

She could tell from the way people in the hospital looked at her that she must appear pretty freakish, but inside she was still the lovely woman she had once been. She suddenly realized that she desperately wanted to be attractive to someone, even though the odds of it were pretty slim at this point. Well, at least she could look better than she had.

Cuddy surveyed her handiwork. Although the makeup had not completely hidden the scars or the bruises, a judicious use of base, blush, powder, lipstick, eye shadow and liner had made a dramatic difference, bringing out the hazel color of Rainie's anxious eyes and emphasizing her mouth and the prettiness of the face underneath all the injuries.

"Ready or not, here we come," she called out as she opened the door.

Helping Rainie to her feet, she came through the doorway first, her arm firmly around Rainie's waist.

Wilson jumped up from his chair and went to support Rainie's other side. Together they helped her into the room.

Suddenly self-conscious, Rainie looked down, not wanting to see disappointment on House's face.

As they entered the room, Cuddy watched House's reaction attentively—mostly because she didn't want Rainie to feel let down. What she saw on his face surprised her. She saw delight.

Touching Rainie's arm, she whispered, "Look up."

Timidly, Rainie lifted her gaze to find herself looking at House's face. He was smiling, and when their eyes met, he nodded his approval.

"Why, Miss Jones," he said softly, "you're beautiful."


	42. Chapter 42: Cross Examination

Cross Examination…

**T**he day's proceedings were already in progress when the van pulled up to the back of the new county courthouse. With any luck, the press would be looking for them out front, not back here. This was news, after all. Not only was this the first public appearance of Maureen Adler, but the now-infamous Gregory House would also be testifying.

First the lift lowered one wheelchair, then the other. Joe Roberts took charge of Rainie's chair, and Wilson rolled House up the ramp into the building. So far so good.

As they reached the hall outside the courtroom, Roberts and Wilson parked the wheelchairs along a wall, stepping away to allow the two witnesses to have a few moments to compose themselves before they entered.

Rainie wore the outfit she and Cuddy had put together, her other new clothes yet to be chosen. On her feet were simple black ballet flats. Cuddy had again applied her makeup, and the day before had arranged for her own hairdresser to come to room 304 to give Rainie a good haircut, one that allowed the dark curls to frame her face in the most flattering way. House wore a dark jacket over the kind of blue shirt that emphasized the deep color of his eyes. He had even deigned to wear the tie.

Wilson chatted inconsequentially with Roberts, occasionally glancing over to see how the witnesses were doing. Rainie was trembling, clearly frightened, and House was having trouble controlling his nerves.

"Will they be able to go in together?" asked Wilson.

"Normally, no, but since House is a medical witness and Rainie is the main prosecution witness, I don't think it'll be an issue. And it might help having one big commotion instead of two."

Considering how much better both of them did in each other's company, Wilson felt comforted. When he looked again, he saw House reach his left hand toward Rainie. She slipped her right hand into his and squeezed it lightly. The two exchanged a glance, and House nodded slightly, his eyes clouded and his mouth severe.

It wasn't too long before a middle-aged female bailiff came out for House. Roberts stepped over and spoke quietly to her. She glanced at Rainie, and seemed hesitant, but after a moment slowly nodded.

Roberts motioned Wilson over, and just before they reached the wheelchairs, House squeezed Rainie's hand tightly.

"It's only a little while, and then we're outta here," he said, as much for himself as for her. She was pale and shivering; she closed her eyes and nodded.

When the doors opened and the two wheelchairs rolled into the courtroom, Wilson heard loud gasps from around the room. For the first time, Wilson thought about how the two must look to the uninitiated. Both were covered in scars and had noticeable deformities. In addition, House's head and shoulder were still bandaged, his right arm was in a sling and his left foot in a cast. The left side of Rainie's face was a bluish-purple from where she'd fallen, and not even Cuddy's expert makeup skills could cover the bruises or all of the scars.

House must hate this, thought Wilson, looking down at the top of his friend's head, which was bent down to avoid the prying stares. He could see House's hands quivering as he gripped the arms of the wheelchair to try to still them.

The courtroom floor was raked down toward the bench, which meant that Wilson and Roberts had to move very slowly to keep the wheelchairs from slipping out of their control. About halfway down, Wilson saw Evan Schuster on the left side of the aisle. Glancing back, Wilson saw him smile at Rainie as she rolled by. Cuddy was seated on the right close to the front, and Linda McAllister was out in the crowd.

They finally reached the bench, where Wilson and Roberts parked the wheelchairs on the plaintiff's side, hidden from most of the spectators, to wait until the witnesses were officially called. Roberts quietly slipped into the seat next to Cuddy in the first row, and Wilson parked himself behind the two wheelchairs. House whispered quietly to Rainie, and gently took her hand again.

Wilson, who had been through this several times with House, was prepared for whatever might happen. He and House and Rainie had gone over it repeatedly. In case either of the two should have a severe panic attack, Wilson would administer Ativan. Jacey Liu, who sat one row behind them, near Cuddy and Roberts, was also preparing herself.

As expected, House was called first. Neither he nor Rainie would be able to get up into the witness box, so Wilson rolled his chair forward and turned it around. When Wilson returned to the prosecution's table, he couldn't help noticing the faces of the jurors and spectators, and how keenly they stared at House. He heard muttering all around him.

Sitting down behind Rainie's chair, he noted that she wasn't blinking, just staring intently at House and having trouble getting her breath.

"It's okay, Rainie," he whispered. "We're all here with you. We won't let anything happen."

Very gently he laid his hand on her shoulder. Her breath caught and she pulled away; then she forcibly calmed herself down and allowed his hand to remain, but she stayed tense under his fingers. He removed his hand.

After House was sworn in, the government attorney for the prosecution approached him. To control his shaking hands, House gripped the arms of the wheelchair in what he hoped was an inconspicuous way.

"Dr. House, could you please tell us your credentials and your connection with this case?"

"Certainly," said House, sounding more confident than Wilson expected him to. "I'm the head of the Diagnostic Medicine Department at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital and the lead physician on Maureen Adler's case."

"Would you explain to the jury the nature of her injuries?"

House swallowed and inhaled.

"It would not be much of an overstatement to say that every bone in Ms. Adler's body has been broken, some repeatedly, and those breaks were never treated or set properly. In addition, she has suffered some muscle and nerve damage as well as internal injuries."

The prosecutor asked a few more specific medical questions, which House answered simply. His voice was low and quiet, and the courtroom microphone didn't amplify it well, so that people in the courtroom leaned forward in an attempt to hear him.

"What kind of recuperation does she face?" the prosecutor asked.

This was hitting awfully close to home, Wilson thought, watching House's face closely.

House took a deep breath before replying.

"Ms. Adler will spend the rest of her life recovering from these injuries," said the doctor. "She faces countless surgeries to improve her quality of life, and unless surgical techniques improve drastically in her lifetime, none of it will begin to restore what she's lost."

"Could you be more specific?"

Unfortunately, he could.

"Her legs are so badly injured that it's unlikely she will ever walk more than a few steps unaided again. Her hands have been crushed. Her lower spine is damaged. I could spend hours going over the injuries, but in the interest of time, I have prepared a detailed medical report that includes additional sections written by all of the physicians and therapists on her medical team."

Roberts handed over the report, which was as big and impressive as a city telephone book, to be submitted into evidence. Even the judge looked startled when he saw the size of it.

"Thank you, Dr. House. Could you give us some insight into Ms. Adler's pain issues?"

House glanced at Rainie, who seemed to be holding her own for the time being.

"At times, her pain is extreme. At those times, it can be comparable to the final stages of cancer," he said, so quietly that he was asked to repeat it.

Another murmur went through the crowd.

"And how much of that will improve with time?"

"Some of it will get better as she recuperates. Some will not. She will spend every minute of the rest of her life in pain, some of it agonizing."

How could he speak so calmly about it, thought Evan out in the audience. What he's saying about her pain is true of his own. He glanced at Rainie, whose eyes were dark and her jaw clenched.

"One last question: How could injuries of this kind be created?"

"There's really only one way—systematic, intentional and deliberate torture."

This time, there was a loud rumble throughout the courtroom.

"Thank you, Dr. House. No more questions."

The tricky part was going to be the cross-examination.

The defense attorney approached House.

"You have stated that you are head of the Diagnostic Medicine Department at Princeton Plainsboro. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"The Maureen Adler case is not terribly difficult diagnostically, is it?"

"No, it isn't."

"Can you tell the jury why the head of Diagnostic Medicine is on a case that has little to do with diagnostics?"

House had expected this. In fact, he expected worse. And he might still get it.

"Yes, of course. I asked to be in charge of this case."

"Why?"

House was aware, even if the jury and the spectators weren't, that the defense attorney had to tread carefully here if he wanted to be effective. The goal was to cast some doubt on House's competence without generating any sympathy for him from the jury.

"Because I have specialized knowledge that is useful in treating Ms. Adler."

Another murmur.

"I understand that injuries of this kind are often accompanied by post-traumatic stress disorder. Is that correct?"

"Yes, it is." Keep it simple.

Clever, thought House. He's avoided saying what kind of injuries, because he doesn't want the jury to believe that's how they were caused. He hasn't made me explain my specialized knowledge, which would garner sympathy, but of course everyone already knows that part, or if they don't, they can figure it out by looking at me. He's going to go the cracked-up doctor route.

"And do you, Dr. House, have 'specialized knowledge' in that area as well?"

"Yes."

"And is it possible that your specialized knowledge could interfere with Ms. Adler's treatment?"

Might as well sidestep it and see if that works.

"There are ten of us on the medical team, made up of some of the top people in the field. As a group, we can provide the best possible support for Ms. Adler in her recuperation."

"You haven't really answered the question. Let's try it again a little more directly. Dr. House, you suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder yourself, do you not?"

House blanched. Get it over with.

"Yes, I do."

"Is it possible that your PTSD could negatively affect Ms. Adler's care?"

House looked at him steadily.

"It might be possible, except for the fact that our team includes Dr. Jacey Liu, an internationally known psychiatrist specializing in trauma cases, to ensure that both my PTSD and Ms. Adler's PTSD are treated correctly." He hoped that dealt with it effectively.

"Let's get right to the point," said the attorney. "You yourself received injuries similar to Ms. Adler's. That's correct, isn't it?"

"Yes it is." Hmmm. Thought he wasn't going to mention my injuries. Where is he going with this?

"Under those circumstances and given your own PTSD, do you think you have the medical objectivity to treat her appropriately?"

House was determined to remain calm, although he felt anything but.

"Medicine is medicine. My experiences have nothing to do with how she is treated medically."

"Ah, but is it possible that your experiences could color how you have interpreted her injuries? You're not exactly the most impartial physician she could have."

He looked the defense attorney right in the eye as he said, "I suppose not, but my experiences do give me something no other physician could have."

"And that would be?"

Very good, thought House, pleased with himself. Thanks for picking up on my cue.

"I have an intimate knowledge of what she's going through. Let me state this as clearly as I can. Because I understand her injuries so well, I will advocate for the finest medical care anyone in her condition could possible receive. _Because _of my experiences—not in spite of them—I am by far the best person for this job, the best champion Maureen Adler could ever hope to have."

A smattering of applause was heard in the courtroom. The judge brought his gavel down and asked for silence.

Go get `em, House, thought Wilson, pleased and relieved that it was going so well.

"One more thing, Dr. House, and then I'll let you go. Could you take a look at this and tell me what it is?"

He held out a piece of paper.

House attempted to look at it without taking it, but the attorney held it slightly out of reach. Finally, House let go of the arm of the wheelchair with his left hand and reached for the paper. The trembling was particularly bad today, undoubtedly because of his nerves, and he had trouble grasping the paper. Once he finally held it, the sheet fluttered wildly.

Another murmur, this time a loud one, went through the room.

The defense attorney grimaced. Damn it, he thought. Didn't really want to give him any more sympathy than he already had, and that shaking hand really got them. Oh, well, this is kind of a lost cause anyway.

"It's a police report," said House, unsettled for the first time. This had the potential to get ugly.

"Could you tell me what it says?"

"Do you want me to read it or give you the short version?"

"Short version is fine."

"Several weeks ago, I had a bad nightmare, and woke up some neighbors with my yelling."

"And you still think you're the best doctor for this case?" asked the attorney, giving it one last try. "Your own PTSD is so bad that you woke up the neighbors with your screaming. You are far from impartial in this matter, Dr. House. Isn't it possible that you are seeing Ms. Adler's injuries through the prism of your own?"

Tricky, thought House. There's no good answer for this one. Better sidestep again.

"The medicine doesn't change, no matter what my own experience may be. Medically, there is only one possible cause for those kinds of injuries."

"How can we know that's true? We have only your word for it, and we know you're biased. How can we trust what you say about the cause of Ms. Adler's injuries?"

Nice riposte, thought House. "Fortunately, my report, all 323 pages of it, includes analyses by each of the ten members of Ms. Adler's medical team. Their conclusions concur unanimously with mine. Only systematic torture could cause those injuries."

"But Dr. House…" began the defense attorney.

All of a sudden, Rainie had had enough.

"Stop it! Just stop it! Leave him alone!" she yelled as she reeled forward, crying. Wilson quickly braced his arm in front of her to keep her from pitching out of the chair.

The courtroom erupted in commotion as the judge attempted to settle everything down.

As fast as he could using his left hand and just the fingers of his right, House propelled himself toward Rainie, listing a little toward the left because of the relative strength of that arm.

"Rainie, Rainie. Listen to me. It's okay." His chair bumped into the partition behind her as he pulled up to her left side. Reaching out, he touched her arm with his left hand. When she felt his touch, she lifted her head and looked at him. Although she looked upset, she didn't look frightened. She did, however, look angry.

"It'll be all right. Really." He looked up to find Jacey Liu at his side. They whispered for a moment.

"Dr. Liu's going to sit with you until I'm done. Is that okay?"

Rainie nodded. He laid his hand on her arm. She smiled weakly.

"Wilson, could you turn me around and get me back over there?" he whispered. One-handed wheelchair maneuvering was a little too much for him, and he'd trapped himself up against the partition.

Once he was settled back in front of the witness box, House surveyed the room. In more than one way, Rainie's outburst had helped him. Not only had it put the focus back on Rainie and what she'd suffered, but it broke the flow of the defense attorney's attack. It was going to be hard for him to regain that momentum now, especially as House had provided immediate and tangible proof of how well he could handle a crisis with his patient.

The defense attorney apparently saw it the same way himself.

"No further questions."

To give Rainie time to calm down, the judge called a fifteen-minute recess.


	43. Chapter 43: Meet the Press

Meet the Press…

**D**uring the recess, House held Rainie's hand and talked to her in a low voice. She kept her eyes on his, nodding occasionally.

Now it was Rainie's turn. Roberts wheeled her forward and turned her chair around.

The spectators craned in for a closer look.

For nearly four hours, minus breaks, Rainie avoided looking at the defendants as she talked about what they had done to her. Evan, who remembered seeing House do the same thing two years earlier, had an eerie sense of déjà vu as she quietly spoke. The difference being that House wasn't his best friend.

She talked about the physical abuse, the terror, the injuries, the rapes, about Jeff's death and her years of torment in prison.

Sometimes shaky and often crying, she kept going. More than once, House rolled himself closer, as if he might have to intervene, but she remained steady. As she spoke, he kept his eyes on her at all times, and occasionally she looked over at him, seeming to gain strength from his presence. Wilson noticed that as her testimony progressed, his face grew more pale and his eyes more haunted until at last he saw silent tears roll down House's cheeks.

For one short second toward the end of her testimony, Rainie turned and looked at her attackers, four women and two men who stared back at her. She closed her eyes and turned away, beginning to quake as she identified them.

By the end, there was really nothing the defense attorney could say. He knew his one shot in this case was to discredit House, and that hadn't worked.

When she was done, the courtroom was oddly quiet except for sniffles and sobs.

Roberts wheeled her back over to House, who laid his hand on hers. "Good job," was all he said.

Jacey Liu hovered, checking on Rainie, who seemed shaken but otherwise all right.

"Let's go home," said House.

Rainie nodded.

Wilson and Roberts rolled them back up the aisle, Rainie first, followed by House.

The looks they garnered on their way out were very different from the gawking stares they got as they entered.

Now, people were smiling encouragingly, clearly moved by what the two had said and done. A couple of times, someone reached out toward Rainie as she passed, which made her cringe dramatically, whimpering _sotto voce_ and pulling as far away as the wheelchair would allow. After the second such incident, Jacey went on ahead, asking the remaining spectators to refrain from reaching out or approaching either of the two witnesses.

Somehow, they got out and back into the hall, where for the first time in several hours, no one else was present. Both Rainie and House were visibly glad to be out of the spotlight. House closed his eyes and took several deep breaths.

"You okay?" House asked after a moment. Rainie looked even more frail than usual.

She waited a long time before responding. Then, taking a very long, deep, shaky breath and exhaling it slowly, she said "Y-yes" and nothing else.

Her eyes met House's. He seemed to be searching for something on her face, something that would answer a question. Roberts noticed nonverbal exchanges taking place between the two of them, some silent conversation about their mutual experiences. Their eyes remained fixed on each other for a long time. Finally, he looked down and away, a heartrending expression on his face.

Finally, after a couple of quiet minutes, House said, "Let's get this over with."

Knowing photographers and reporters were bound to catch up with them on their way out, House and Rainie held hands tightly for a few seconds before House told Wilson and Roberts they were ready.

As they reached the back door of the courthouse, Roberts looked out first to assess the situation. Sure enough, reporters and photographers swarmed around the door, over the ramp and in front of the hospital van.

This is going to be worse than testifying, thought House.

"Rainie," he said, "close your eyes. It'll be easier if you don't see them."

Terror showing on her face, she complied.

"Ready?" asked Roberts. She nodded curtly.

House, who preferred to keep his eyes open, girded himself and looked down.

Roberts threw open the door and, as rapidly as he dared, wheeled Rainie out, down the ramp and toward the van. She kept her eyes tightly shut.

A cacophony of voices assaulted her ears. "Ms. Adler! Ms. Adler!" "Look this way!" "What was it like confronting your attackers?" "Look here!"

Through her eyelids, Rainie could see the flashes going off. She began to tremble violently.

House, who was a few feet behind her, saw her shoulders shake.

"Get her out of here!" he called out to Roberts.

"Doing my best," said the FBI agent.

"Dr. House!" "Is it true you had a nervous breakdown?" "Here! Look here!" "Let me get a picture!" "Holy shit! Look at their faces!"

House could tell from the tension in the back of her neck that Rainie was about to lose it.

Suddenly, he looked up at the hovering reporters, his eyes flashing.

"You want something?!" he called over the din, which suddenly quieted. "I'll give you whatever you want if you'll leave her alone."

Wilson leaned over. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes," muttered House through gritted teeth.

The crowd abruptly stopped moving, giving Roberts time to get Rainie onto the lift and up into the van. She looked back fearfully to see House face the press.

"What is it you want? You want pictures of the freak? Go for it. I'll give you one minute to get your pictures." He looked at his watch, timing them.

The flashes flared blindingly as House stared stonily into the crowd.

"Dr. House—a few questions!" called out one of the reporters.

House glanced at his watch again.

"Sorry. Time's up. Wilson, get me out of here."

Wilson pushed him the rest of the way through the throng and up into the van next to Rainie. House leaned over toward her, putting his hand on her arm as camera flashes stole their intimate moment for posterity.

The van doors closed. They'd gotten through it.

**B**y the time they got back to room 304, both patients were sound asleep. About two hours later, Rainie woke up terrified, the flashes and the faces replaying themselves in her head.

Three weeks, five trials and innumerable nightmares later, House and Rainie had become quite the vaudeville team. They repeated, more or less, the same scenario—getting gawked at, stressed out, frightened and angered, but in the end triumphing. In all six cases, the defendants were sentenced to the maximum sentence possible.

The only case left was Pevey's, which promised to be a very different experience.

_Page 3 of 3_


	44. Chapter 44: Under Attack

**Under Attack…**

**I**t started out the same way as the others: the ride in the van, the wait in the hall.

But this time, the dynamic was different. This time, it wasn't a government case but rather a criminal case. This time, Rainie would have to venture into the courtroom alone, as would House, who would have to talk, not about medicine, but about his own experiences. This time, House had his own attorney, Jane Dabney, who came highly recommended by Joe Roberts. This time, they were in a different—and much larger—courtroom. And worst of all, the trial was open to the press.

Cuddy, Wilson, plus the security guards, the nurse and both television reporters (all of whom agreed to testify against Pevey as part of their plea bargain) would set the stage, detailing Pevey's behavior at work and his attempts to discredit House and the hospital. Karen Langley, Anna Stein, Jacey Liu and others would testify about the injuries House received from Pevey's assault.

When they were done, Rainie would talk about the night the security guards and the nurse took her to the second floor and Pevey filmed her. She would be followed by Linda McAllister and Joe Roberts describing what they saw after the attack.

Then, finally, House would testify about his long-standing difficulties with Pevey, several previous confrontations and concluding with the attack, which he barely remembered.

After one last look at House, still sitting in the hall, Rainie prepared herself for the reaction from the crowd. At least this case was the last one, and now she knew what to expect. But this time not only was House not with her, but Roberts would not be pushing her chair. Instead, one of the bailiffs took charge.

The doors opened and in they went.

Rainie kept her head down, but she could hear the usual rumble from the crowd and the occasional whispered "Oh, my God!" or "Look at her face!" Not for the first time, she appreciated how House had always, from the very first moment, treated her as if he saw nothing unusual in her appearance, and in fact found her attractive. It never dawned on her that she'd done the same for him.

She heard the click and whir of cameras and felt the flashes on her face.

As she got closer to the front of the courtroom, her heart started thumping in her chest and she was having trouble breathing. Come on, she said to herself, you're a big girl. Get it together. You've done this before. You don't need House to get through it. Jacey Liu would sit next to her until she was called, and would be there when she was done. It would be all right.

Once she was situated, Jacey Liu leaned over to check on her.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Mmm-hmm," Rainie lied, trying to catch her breath.

She was sworn in a few minutes later, her chair turned toward the crowd, those nameless gawking faces. Taking a breath, she fought down her panic.

Jane Dabney began by asking Rainie for her full name and her connection to Dr. House.

"Maureen Eloise Adler. Dr. House is the lead physician on my medical case."

The attorney then asked Rainie to tell the jury what had happened the night she was removed from her room.

"I woke up when the nurse came in and started detaching me from the monitoring equipment. When I asked her what was going on, she didn't say anything. Behind her were three men and a gurney."

"How did you react?"

Rainie closed her eyes, trying not to let the memories take over. "I… I was terrified. I knew something was very wrong. All I could think of was that they were taking me back to… that place… that they were going to… h-hurt me."

The members of the jury saw the witness blink back tears.

"Take your time," said Dabney. "What happened next?"

"They lifted me onto the gurney and started to wheel me out the door. I was so frightened—I just wanted to escape. I'm not sure when it happened, but at some point one of them grabbed at me and I pulled away. I think that's when I fell."

"You fell off the gurney?"

"Yes."

"And were you injured?"

"Apparently so, although I didn't realize it at the time. I was just scared."

"Then what?"

"The next thing I remember was being on a bed in a very cold room… a man came into the room, got out a video camera and began filming me."

"What did you do?"

Now she was crying, the words coming out in spurts around her sobs.

"I begged him… not to… I thought it was like before… that they'd film…"

She bowed her head and couldn't continue her shoulder shaking with sobs.

"Are you all right?"

Rainie shook her head, then, under her breath, said, "N-no, but I will be… j-just give me a minute."

The microphone was a good one; it picked up every word.

She took a couple of deep breaths and then looked up again.

"Okay."

"What else happened?"

"Finally, he packed up the camera and left me alone in the room."

"How long were you there?"

"I don't know. A long time. Finally, Dr. House and some others found me."

"Ms. Adler, do you think you'd recognize this man if you saw him?"

Rainie swallowed. If only her heart would stop beating so hard.

"Yes, I'm sure of it."

"Do you see him here in the courtroom?"

Rainie looked around. She had a good idea where Pevey should be sitting, but she took her time and looked over the room.

When she finally saw him, she gasped involuntarily. It was definitely the man.

"That's him," she said, gesturing with her right arm.

"And you're sure?"

"Oh, yes. Positive."

"Thank you, Ms. Adler. No further questions."

Pevey's defense attorney moved quickly as he came right up next to her, looming over her wheelchair, clearly intending to intimidate her. As his shadow covered her face, she winced, her body twitching involuntarily in reaction to the sudden and threatening movement. Her hands fluttered toward her face for a moment until she forcibly brought them down and gripped the arms of her wheelchair.

"Ms. Adler, you say you remember much of what happened that night, is that correct?"

She tried take a breath but couldn't get air. Her voice didn't seem to want to come out. Did he have to stand so close?

"Y-yes."

"And yet, according to your medical records, you were under heavy sedation and were on morphine at that time. How are we supposed to believe that you remember anything at all from that night?"

"Objection. Badgering the witness."

"Sustained. Mr. Davis, please rephrase the question."

"Sorry, your honor. Are you sure that you remember what happened that night? Is it possible that you heard about it later and thought you remembered it?"

Keep calm. Keep calm.

"I'm sure I remember it. Quite clearly, in fact. No one has talked to me about it, and this is the first time I've told anyone what I remember."

"You are aware that you're under oath, aren't you, Ms. Adler? There is a penalty for perjury."

Now she was annoyed. Don't condescend to me, you insolent jerk, she thought. The fear had dissipated and been replaced by a cold anger. She could breathe again.

Smiling at him but with a covert warning in her eyes, she said, "I may look like crap, Mr. Davis, but I'm not stupid."

She heard scattered laughter throughout the courtroom.

"Sorry, your honor. Allow me to rephrase that. Yes, I am aware that I'm under oath. Perjury pertains only when a lie has been told. Everything I've said is the truth. And yes, I know the difference between truth and lies. Here's the truth, just so there's no mistake. _That_ man…"—she pointed at Pevey—"…shot video of me after I'd been taken from my room against my will and put in another. Now, before I leave, is there anything else you'd like to insinuate?"

More laughter and some applause.

If Mr. Davis was chagrined, it didn't show.

"No further questions, your honor."

She was done. The bailiff wheeled her back up the aisle, with Jacey once again in the lead. This time, when spectators reached toward her, she didn't flinch. Funny how anger trumped fear.


	45. Chapter 45: House Testifies

House Testifies…

**W**hen Rainie got back to the hall, House was waiting.

"What on earth did you say?" was the first thing out of his mouth. "I could hear them from out here."

"She told off the defense attorney," said Jacey.

House raised one eyebrow. "You did?" He looked pleased, almost as if he'd done it himself.

Rainie, with head down, looked up at him and smiled a slightly devilish smile.

"'Fraid so. The bastard really pissed me off," she said in a quiet voice.

House just looked at her for a moment, and then he chuckled. "Good for you," he said.

Her back ached from sitting up so long, and her arm muscles trembled. The pain was verging on unbearable, but she was about due for another dose of pain meds, so she bit back the pain. She fought the desire to close her eyes and fall asleep in the wheelchair.

None of this escaped House's notice.

A few minutes later, Joe Roberts joined them in the hall.

"Ms. Adler, if you'll allow me to say so, you were great. I think Davis thought all he had to do was push you a little and he could make the jury think you'd hallucinated the whole thing. Of course, they saw the video yesterday, so it's not like he had much of a chance with that anyway, but still."

When she responded, her voice was weak with exhaustion.

"Do I have to stay out while Greg testifies?" Despite how her body felt, she was determined to stay. "Since I'm already done, am I allowed to be a spectator?"

"You really want to?" asked House, eying her with surprise. He figured the last thing she'd want was to deal with all those people again.

"I think so, if there's a way I can be removed from the crowd a little."

Roberts was surprised, too. Every other time, she couldn't wait to leave. Of course, every other time, the trial had been about people who had assaulted her much more directly than Pevey had.

"They're due for a break shortly. Let me check."

"Thanks."

A little while later, the bailiff came out to let them know the break was about to start. As prearranged, they moved into an adjacent room. After about fifteen minutes, Roberts rejoined them.

"It's all set. They'll take one more break before Dr. House's testimony, and we'll wheel you in a side door and park you down near the front, close to where you were earlier."

"Thanks, Mr. Roberts… Joe. I appreciate it."

House scrutinized Rainie's face as if she were the results of an MRI. Why would she want to spend more time in that courtroom than she had to, especially when it was obvious she was in pain and exhausted? If he admitted it to himself—which he wouldn't—he'd have to say that he was pleased, even relieved, that she'd be there, but why? Why not go back to the safety of room 304? Why stay?

The second break came far too quickly for House's liking. He hadn't given much thought to Pevey or the attack in the weeks since, but he had no trouble remembering his fear every time Pevey had confronted him. He was not looking forward to this.

Rainie had fallen asleep, but woke up groggily when Roberts entered the room.

Roberts took charge of moving Rainie into the courtroom. As they were about to leave, he leaned over toward House.

"We'll see you inside, Dr. House. Give `em hell."

Then it was the all-too-familiar trip into the courtroom. Out of the corner of his eye, House saw friendly faces: Chase, Linda, Cuddy, Roberts, Karen Langley, Jacey Liu and Wilson, of course, who was seated near the front. The bailiff positioned him next to Rainie, who smiled faintly, her face pallid and drawn.

After he was rolled forward and sworn in, House waited for the questions.

"Dr. House, I understand there have been several confrontations between you and Dr. Pevey over the last year. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Could you tell the jury the nature of these confrontations?"

"The first took place the day after I returned to work. He came into my conference room and threatened me. Told me to stay out of his way or he'd make me wish I'd never been born." Of course I already wished that, thought House.

Off to the side, Wilson was startled. So that's what happened the night he found House standing so still in the darkened conference room—it was Pevey who had frightened him. House had never talked about it, but Wilson had never stopped wondering what had triggered that reaction.

Cuddy, too, hadn't realized that Pevey had threatened House before. It was just like House to keep it to himself. Perhaps this whole thing could have been avoided if she could have disciplined Pevey months earlier.

"You say you'd just returned to work. Why were you out of work?"

House was hoping she wouldn't ask this. He knew it would make the case stronger, but he really didn't want to go into it.

Diplomatically, he replied: "I had been seriously injured, and had been away from my job for a number of years."

That was all he was going to say about it. The jury either knew already or didn't. The injuries on his body told them what they needed to know.

"Was this the only time Dr. Pevey confronted you?"

Despite his best intentions, House felt himself getting agitated. His hands were starting to shake. He gripped the arms of the wheelchair.

"No. There have been four or five other incidents in the past year. Five."

"How did these come about? Did he seek you out, or did they happen in the course of the day?"

Until now, he hadn't realized just how much Pevey had upset him, kept him on edge, always afraid of running into him, of being trapped by him.

"He sought me out. Always late in the day. He would show up in my office when no one was around."

"During any of these incidents, did Dr. Pevey use physical force, or was it all verbal?" asked Jane Dabney.

"A couple of times he raised his hand, and once he backed me into a wall, but everything else was verbal."

"Would you tell the jury what you remember of the night you were attacked?"

What exactly did he remember? He remembered answering the door. Start there.

"When I answered the door, I thought it was going to be Linda McAllister, my physical therapist. Instead, I saw Alan Pevey."

Pevey's flushed face, red with rage, appeared in his mind. The jury saw fear flash over his face, although House was completely unaware that his feelings showed.

"I understand it took you a while to answer the door. Would you tell the jury why?"

"Yes, of course. I had to use my crutches to get to the door."

"What else do you remember, Dr. House?"

"Not much. It happened very fast. I tried to close the door, but he pushed his way in. He shouted at me, something about my ruining his life. Then he knocked me down and began hitting me."

"What did he use to hit you?"

Did he have to? Oh, damn. She was going to go that route.

"One of my crutches."

He knew how it sounded. It sounded pathetic. It felt pretty pathetic. The spectators must have thought it sounded pathetic, too, because he heard low voices reacting to what he'd said.

"And then what?"

"He kept hitting me, mostly on the head, shoulder and right thigh."

"Why the right thigh?" she asked, knowing the answer but wanting to make sure the jury did, too.

"I have to assume it's because I have a pre-existing injury there—my right thigh is especially sensitive."

He exhaled slowly, trying to remain calm. Without being aware of it, he brushed his hand subconsciously over his right thigh. Rainie could see the anxiety settling in around his eyes.

"Do you remember anything else from that night?"

"Not much. I remember seeing the FBI agents. That's about it."

"One last question. How long was your recuperation from the injuries you suffered that night?"

"There's no way to answer that question… I'm still recuperating."

That should be obvious, he thought.

"Thank you very much, Dr. House."

The judge turned to the counsel for the defense. Davis strode over to House's wheelchair, hovering over him imposingly, as he had with Rainie.

"Now, Dr. House, was there anything in your past interactions with Dr. Pevey that might have caused him to dislike you?"

He expected this.

"Yes, there was. Many years ago, I told his wife he was having an affair."

"And why would you do that?"

"I'm aware how this will sound, but the truth is that I needed him to perform surgery on one of my patients and he was unwilling to do so. I told him I'd tell his wife about the affair if he didn't do the surgery."

"So you blackmailed him?"

House heard a reaction from the crowd.

"Essentially, yes."

"And, even though he did the surgery, you told his wife anyway."

"Yes."

"Why would you do that?"

The look House gave him was both amused and annoyed.

"Because I'm not a nice man," he said, allowing a wicked twinkle to show in his eyes.

He heard Wilson's and Rainie's startled laughs in the background, joined by a couple of other sniggers throughout the room, presumably from people who knew him or his reputation. Rainie's voice saying "Define nice" echoed in his head.

"So would you say that Dr. Pevey had a legitimate grievance against you?"

"_I_ wouldn't, but others would. And did."

"And when you returned to work, I understand that Dr. Pevey, as a board member, opposed your return on the grounds that you were an unethical doctor. Is that correct?"

"I wasn't there, so I couldn't say."

"After you returned to work, did you do anything to upset Dr. Pevey?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Isn't it true that you got him fired?"

He knew the jury had already heard Cuddy and Wilson's testimony about what Pevey had done to get fired, and how the board had handled it.

A low rumble met his ears.

"Silence!" said the judge.

"As far as I know, I did nothing to get him dismissed."

"That's not true, you fucking bastard!" Suddenly, Pevey leapt up from the defense table. "You cost me my marriage and my career!"

He shoved his chair back and ran yelling toward House, who suddenly saw it all happening again.

Wilson saw him cringe and turn pale. Shit. Shit shit shit.

House tried to slide out his wheelchair onto the floor, causing the chair to topple over to the right, collapsing on top of his legs. Curling onto his right side, he wrapped his left arm over his head and waited for the inevitable. Although he didn't realize it, he cried out in fear and began to shake dramatically.

The rest of the courtroom froze for a moment, shocked.

Joe Roberts, in the back of the room, found himself running toward the front. Goddammit, he thought. Not again.

Rainie sat petrified for a moment before her anger took over.

"No!" she screamed, pushing herself forward into Pevey's path. "Don't you touch him! Don't you dare hurt him again!"

So intent was he on getting to House, Pevey never saw Rainie's chair until he had crashed into it, knocking it over and sending her sprawling onto the ground. He kept going, determined.

The spectators, still frozen in their seats, gasped as Rainie crashed to the floor.

Just as Pevey pulled his foot back to kick the prone man, Roberts and two of the bailiffs reached him, pinning his arms behind him and dragging him away.

"I'll kill him! The fucker! I wish I'd done it that night!"

Roberts and the bailiffs pulled him back toward the defense table where Davis stood dazed, realizing he'd just lost his case rather spectacularly, and that his loss was going to be replayed on television, over and over, _ad nauseum_.

As Pevey was yanked past her, he saw Rainie lying stunned on the floor.

"You little cunt!" he screamed, lunging toward her before he was jerked away. "How can you defend that arrogant son-of-a-bitch? I should have killed you, too, while I was at it!"

All the old terrors flooded in on her, and she began to sob uncontrollably, her entire body convulsing with fear. She curled herself up as tight as she could, her arms protecting her head.

This was too much for House, who was trying to sit up and untangle his legs from the chair.

"How dare you! Leave my patient alone! It's not her fault you couldn't keep your pants zipped or that you were too lazy to do the surgery my other patient needed! And it's certainly not our fault that you're completely out of your mind! What the hell kind of doctor are you anyway, almost allowing one patient to die because you couldn't be bothered to do her surgery, nearly killing me and then assaulting someone already as wounded as this?!"

With that, he hauled himself across the floor to where Rainie lay. As gently as he could, he lifted her up into a sitting position, leaning her against him and circling her shoulders with his left arm.

"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm here. It's over now."

But he had trouble believing it was over, and she wouldn't be consoled. Over the soothing sound of House's voice, both he and Rainie could hear Pevey screeching as he was dragged from the courtroom.

By this time, Wilson, Cuddy, Chase, Karen Langley and Jacey Liu had joined the group at the front of the courtroom. Realizing that Rainie was rapidly becoming hysterical and concerned that either or both of them might have been re-injured, Cuddy called for an ambulance as the judge banged his gavel to clear the courtroom.

Through it all, the press photographers flashed away and the news cameras rolled.


	46. Chapter 46: What's the Point?

**What's the Point…?**

"**N**ot hungry."

"You need to eat."

"No. I don't."

Jason Mbhali, the nurse, newly transferred to this floor and to this (these?) patient(s), tried again.

"You need to keep your strength up."

"Why?"

The patient, curled up under the blanket, stared bleakly at the wall.

"I'll have to tell your doctor if you won't eat." That usually worked.

"Go ahead. He's right behind me. Wake him up. He'll love that."

Mbhali didn't know what to do. He'd been a nurse for eight years, but he'd never run across anything like this before. He'd seen patients share a room before, but not a bed. And he'd certainly never heard of a doctor sharing a bed with his patient.

Finally, he exited, thoroughly confused, leaving the uneaten food still sitting on its tray.

**O**n into the night, House woke up, startled, from a drugged sleep. Instinctively, he covered his head and waited for… what? The room was quiet, except for the gentle beep of two sets of monitors. In the corner he saw a soft reading light casting a foggy glow over the snoring figure of Wilson sleeping on the couch.

The events of the day seemed about as foggy as the light. Stretching his neck, then his arms and torso, he noted that he didn't seem to be any the worse for wear.

Rainie was sleeping. Not right up next to him as usual, but on the far side of her bed, close to the edge and with her back to him.

Or was she sleeping? Hmmmm. Maybe not.

He leaned over and touched her lightly on the shoulder. She hunched her shoulder and pulled away.

"Hey," he said, quietly, not wanting to wake up Wilson.

She didn't say anything.

"Wake up."

"I am awake." Her voice was a monotone.

"Then sit up."

"What's the point?"

This wasn't like her. At least not like any part of her personality he'd experienced thus far. He saw the untouched tray of food next to the bed.

"Come on. Turn over."

"No."

"Why not? I'm your doctor and I'm telling you to turn over."

"Don't want to. Go away."

"Are you okay?"

"Oh, sure. I'm fine."

She didn't sound fine. Finally, she rolled over, but wouldn't look at him. Her face looked blank, and her eyes had no glow.

"What's the point?" she said again, this time into the blanket.

"The point of what?"

That was too much.

"Of anything. I'm a freak. I've got no life, no future… no past… no reason… no anything…"

Then in a very small voice, as if she didn't quite want him to hear her, she added, "…no hope."

He couldn't say he was surprised, having felt that kind of desolation himself. He was just surprised it had taken this long. He'd convinced himself that he'd been having a positive effect on her recovery, but maybe all he did was put off the inevitable.

"What brought this on? Pevey? He's crazy, you know."

"Doesn't matter. I went through all of this… all of this shit… to save Evie. And I couldn't even do that. What's the point? I hurt all the time. Yeah, yeah, I know you do, too. Big deal.

"So what am I going to do? Stay drugged up the rest of my life? I can't live on my own. I probably can't work. Who's going to hire me? And if they could, can I even do my job anymore? I have no family, no one except Evan, who's happily gay and doesn't need a fucked-up straight woman messing up his life. Now that Evie's gone, it just doesn't matter. I want it over. Whatever this life is, I want it over. I… I just can't take it anymore."

House thought a minute before responding. Certainly, he'd been there, as recently as a few weeks ago. Was this something that would pass with sleep and time, or was it more serious? Not for the first time, he wished he had Jacey Liu's expertise.

"My, aren't we a bundle of laughs tonight?"

She glared at him from under the covers.

He stretched his left arm toward her.

"Don't. Touch. Me," she said evenly just before his hand reached her.

He withdrew his hand.

Okay. That worked real well. Now what?

"Should I leave you alone?"

"Might as well. Everyone else has."

Aha. Thanks for the clue. Now, what was it a clue to?

His brain still felt foggy, and he just couldn't seem to get a grip on what was going on with her. Some of it he recognized—the despair, the depression, yes—but what was this other thing, this rejection of him personally? He thought he ought to know what it was, but maybe it was too late at night, or maybe they'd upped his meds, or maybe the excitement of the day had clouded his mind.

"Fine. If that's the way you want it."

If she wanted to play that way, he'd play. Unless maybe that was the wrong thing to do. Damn it. He might have to talk to Jacey if this didn't improve, and find out what to do.

The next day was no better. Rainie still wouldn't eat, and she was far too thin to go without food. She stared aimlessly and refused to talk, getting more and more withdrawn as the day went on.

House was worried. More than worried, he found he was lonely. Despite himself, he'd grown accustomed to having Rainie to talk to, to be with. And now she'd separated herself from him so much that the room felt empty. Worse than empty.

**F**inally, while she was out at her afternoon physio session the following day, House called Jacey on her cell and asked if she'd come down. She showed up about fifteen minutes later.

"What's up? You don't usually ask my advice."

"No, I usually wait until there's a crisis and then let you take charge."

True. But this time, he wasn't waiting for the crisis, which suggested he thought it was going to be a bad one.

"Is it you or Rainie?"

"Rainie. Or both of us. I'm not sure."

"Tell me what's happening?"

"I wish I knew. All of a sudden, she won't eat, she won't talk much and when she does, she sounds… well, there's nothing there. No inflection. I don't know if it's something about what happened in court or if it's a natural reaction to everything… or what."

"Tell me what she's been saying."

"The night after the trial, she kept saying, 'What's the point?' and talking about how she wanted her life to be over. She wouldn't look at me, wouldn't talk to me. Hasn't really talked to me since."

"What did you do?"

He sounded apprehensive. "What do you mean? What did I do? I don't think I did anything to her."

Interesting, thought Jacey, that he immediately assumes I think it's his fault.

"No, no," she said, trying to be reassuring. "I don't think you did anything to her. I meant how did you react when this happened?"

She saw a flash of something waver across House's face, relief perhaps.

"Oh, that. At first, I tried to kid her out of it. Then I just backed off."

"Okay, let's start with this. Depression is a very natural reaction to something of this magnitude. A combination of survivor's guilt and grief over the lost life, hopes and dreams. It's why the suicide rate among returning vets is so high."

Suddenly, he looked dismayed. She saw him trying to get his emotions under control.

"She's suicidal? I mean, that does make sense. Been there. But how did she go from trying to protect me two days ago to not caring the same night?"

"Well, that's the $64,000 question, isn't it? My guess would be that it got triggered when Pevey threatened her. Up to that point, she'd been slowly exploring the idea that maybe she had some control over her life. Suddenly, he took that control away and thrust her back into an environment where she—and you—had no control."

She looked as his face as she said this, and realized she'd hit a nerve when she saw a haunted look come over him. He nodded. She could see him drift away into his own thoughts and memories.

After a moment, she said, "Greg?"

His eyes refocused and he took in a sharp breath.

"I'm with you," he said. Barely, but with you.

"The other thing, and you've probably figured this out yourself, is that depression is so often actually all about anger, usually about anger that has no healthy outlet. She, like you, is furious about what was done to her. And, in her case, what was also done to her husband and child. But she doesn't feel there's a healthy way to vent that anger. So it stays inside and eats at her. As I know it does with you."

It was one thing for him to open up to Rainie, who was so fragile and whose experiences were so like his, but it was quite another for Jacey Liu to peer into his soul without permission. He felt thrown off balance.

"And don't bother rationalizing why this isn't true for you," she said, disconcertingly. "It is, and you know it."

He looked right at her. "I hate you," he said, his eyes narrowing into slits.

She laughed. "Well, that's a start. But what are we going to do about Rainie? Got any ideas?"

"Based on what you said, the only thing I can think of is to make her angry."

"That's one approach. The other is to keep calling her on her behavior. Or both. You've said it a number of times: You understand her better than anyone else could. Don't be afraid to tell her the truth—it's never stopped you with anyone else."

Somehow it was easier to tell the blunt, unvarnished truth as he saw it when he was talking to his staff or to Wilson or Cuddy. Rainie was different. He told her the truth, but it was a different truth—the truth about their situation, and the truth about himself. In this case, he wasn't totally sure what the truth was. So he ignored that part of the conversation and skipped back.

"The anger thing. Is that really a good idea?"

"Frankly, I don't think it can hurt. If she stays this way for very long, she's going to make herself more ill. And what you and I both want for her is to find some kind of peace with her situation.

"It's like the stages of grief—because, well, actually, that's what it is—she's grieving over her lost life. She's already done denial, while she was in the midst of it and immediately after. She's experiencing some depression, and for all we know, she may have done some bargaining. The only real anger either of us has seen with her has been the times she stuck up for you in court."

"Which brings up the other thing," said House, almost hesitant to bring it up. "This is the first time she seems to be rejecting me personally. Am I handling this wrong? Or is it like a kid who's off to school, bound and determined to let mom know she's not needed anymore?"

Jacey Liu looked at him sharply. He was usually so perceptive.

"Not sure," she replied, tentatively, deciding as she spoke to forge on ahead as tactfully as she could. "Might be something entirely different. Don't forget, she's lost almost all the people she loves. Often when that happens, survivors start trying to push away anyone they develop feelings for, to try to protect themselves from what they are convinced will become the inevitable loss. Sound familiar?"

Oh, yes, thought House. He might not be a survivor in the same way, but he understood the concept. Stacy. And virtually everyone else since then. Except Rainie. It dawned on him that he'd never once been inclined to push her away, probably because of their shared tragedy, and because she was so very fragile.

Now, at least, her rejection made some sort of sense. She'd grown to care about him—that was obvious from how she'd behaved in court—and somehow Pevey's attack made her feel that it was safer to keep him at arm's length.

So was there any way to convince her that she wouldn't lose him, too? The scientist in him said of course not. Neither of them could control accidents or illness. And the part of him that had spent years doing the rejecting also said of course not. She couldn't risk letting him get too close, because it would hurt too much.

He hated this kind of crap.


	47. Chapter 47: It Hurts Too Much

It Hurts Too Much…

**S**till expressionless when she returned from her physio session, Rainie stared at the television with a decided lack of interest.

Dinner came and went. He attempted his; she pushed hers away.

More television. Hours of television. Finally, House grabbed the remote and turned off the set. His action had virtually no effect on Rainie, who continued to stare vacantly in the direction of the blank set.

Make her angry, eh? What the hell.

"That's it. I've had it," he said after a moment. She turned her head in his direction without actually looking at him.

"Fine," she said, her voice flat.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her toward him. He held her chin between his fingers and forced her to look at him. She wouldn't meet his eyes.

"I meant it. I'm not putting up with this bullshit anymore."

Startled, she made eye contact briefly before looking away.

"Doesn't matter to me either way," she said, shrugging.

Ah. Got it. Or at least part of it.

"But it does, Rainie. It matters to you a lot—too much, in fact. I know what you're doing."

For a second, she looked at him again, this time emotion flooding over her. Then her face went slack.

"Oh, and pray tell, what would that be?" Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

"You're running away, taking the coward's way out."

She drew in a short breath.

"So what?" she said, finally, her voice rising as she spoke. "It doesn't hurt as much this way. So, tell me, what's wrong with that?! So what if I am?!"

"Because…" he said quietly, allowing the dramatic pause to build until she had to look at him, "…if you give up, if you shut down, you let Thompson win. He wanted to destroy you and he couldn't. But by destroying yourself, you're letting him win. On top of that," he added—might as well pile it on thick—"by giving up, you—_you_, Rainie Adler, not Thompson—are saying that Jeff and Evie died for nothing."

That got her.

"Dammit, Greg, they _did_ die for nothing! Thompson was insane and he killed them to get even with me, to get even with you. There was no meaning in it. And whether I live or die, there won't ever be any meaning in it!"

"So what you're saying is you're actually angry with me—because if it wasn't for Thompson wanting to get even with me, they'd be alive."

She faltered. "N-no. Not angry with you. With Thompson. With me."

"How can you say that?" he said, goading her on. "Be realistic! You ought to be angry with me. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't be here! You'd be living your nice New York life with your husband and your baby. It's all my fault. Why don't you just say it? Come on, Rainie! Say it!"

"No!" she yelled. "You couldn't help what happened. It's not your fault! It's not!"

"Then what makes you think it's _your _fault? Why are you so angry with yourself?" He was yelling now. Well, at least she was interacting with him, making eye contact.

Her eyes were flashing, and she was facing him on the bed, close enough that she could feel his hot breath on her face as he bellowed at her.

"Dr. House? Is everything all right in here? Do you need any help?" In his right ear, House heard the impeccably bad timing of nurse Kate Marcus, who was standing a few paces into the room.

"It's fine!" he said, not even glancing in the direction of her voice, keeping his eyes on Rainie. "Get the hell out of here!"

After a second, he heard the whoosh-thud of the door behind her.

"Answer my question, Rainie," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Why are you so angry with yourself?"

She was breathing heavily now and her eyes were locked on his. He hoped this was the right thing to do. At least it was better than having her stare vacantly at walls.

"Because… because, Goddamn it, I brought this on my family, and I should have been able to save them! I did everything Thompson wanted. I forfeited my job, my life, my health, my sanity. And it wasn't enough… it wasn't enough to save them! I wasn't good enough."

She started to cry.

Her reality met his in a stunning moment.

"Dear God, neither was I," he whispered under his breath, shaken.

Very hesitantly, he reached out toward her, fearful of rejection again. This time, she let him touch her arm. Cautiously, he moved closer.

"It's not you. Believe me, it's all Thompson. It's not that you weren't good enough. It's that he was bad enough. Bad enough to kill them for no reason. Just as he killed Dr. Cameron. Don't let him kill you, too. Don't let that evil bastard win. Fight him, Rainie."

She pulled back and looked away again, casting her eyes down.

"I… I'm so _tired_ of fighting," she said, as if even speaking the words was an effort. "I'm just so tired."

"I know," he said, more tenderly now. "So am I. I understand. I really do. There are moments I wish I could just die and be done with it. Done with the pain, done with the fear. Done with myself. Knowing that I'll never have another pain-free moment the rest of my life. That breathing is an effort. That I'm constantly fighting the panic down, hiding it from everyone around me, just to make it through the day."

She looked up at him abruptly, searching his face for something. For what?

"Know why I don't just quit? Especially when we both know it would be a lot easier."

She shook her head, and leaned in slightly.

"Because I refuse to give Thompson the satisfaction. Because the only way I know to beat the bastard is to stay alive and try to make my life mean something."

For a moment, he thought he'd done it, gotten her out of this vacuum that had consumed her.

Then she turned her head away and pulled back again.

"What?" he asked.

"No," she replied, which didn't make any sense.

"No what?"

"No to this." She leaned further away.

He wasn't sure what she meant by "this." He waited.

"Just can't. It hurts too much."

Oh, here we go again. She'd let herself get close to him, and getting close always meant getting hurt. In fact, he realized right at that moment that if she pulled back from him emotionally now, after he'd opened up to her, he would also get hurt. Really, seriously, wrenchingly hurt. The thought suddenly petrified him.

Tell her the truth, Jacey had said. Had she meant the truth about how he felt, or some other truth? He wasn't sure.

"What brought this on?" he asked. "Was it what Pevey said to you?"

She nodded tentatively.

"Mm-hmm. Sort of."

"Why sort of?"

"Doesn't matter what brought it on. I can't go on like this."

She gestured at the two of them, at the beds pushed together. He found himself feeling increasingly anxious.

"This can't be healthy. I'm relying on you too much. It's not fair to you."

Trying not to panic and not at all sure why he was feeling the way he was, he said, "Let me be the judge of what's fair to me."

"Fine," she said. "But I can't keep doing this."

Somehow, it was glimmering through the fog. He took her shoulders and turned her toward him again.

"What's really going on here? Don't give me that 'hurts too much' crap. Of course it does. We're both terrified of getting close to anyone and losing them, maybe for different reasons, but the result is the same. I get that. What is it that's making you pull away? Pull away now?"

She refused to meet his gaze. Her eyes shifted around as she thought about whether to answer, and how. When she finally responded, her voice was low, and she seemed very uncomfortable.

"I guess it's not that unusual."

He looked at her, puzzled.

"What?" he asked, genuinely baffled.

If he had to put a name to it, he'd say she looked embarrassed. Now her voice was so quiet, he could barely hear her.

"It's called transference, isn't it? I guess it's pretty common… for a patient to fall in love with her doctor."

Oh.

Oh!

He was, quite simply, staggered.

How had he not seen this coming?

So she thought she was in love with him. In the past, women had claimed to be in love with him, or had pursued romantic entanglements. With the exception of Stacy, who was sharp and bracing in her love, he'd always recognized it and run like hell. Somehow, this time, he was… well, what was he?

Stunned? Definitely.

Flattered? Maybe.

Concerned? Absolutely.

It was probably just a reaction to his treating her with care after everything she'd been through, he thought. Although maybe there was something more.

He realized with a shock that he hadn't just treated her with care. He'd actually cared. And had let her know he cared.

He could see why she was fearful. She was a smart woman and this was full of pitfalls. It wasn't healthy, at least not now, not here, not like this. And yet he felt enormous tenderness and… affection… and… admiration… what else… love…? _It couldn't be, could it?_ It had been growing for weeks, but the man who could be so perceptive about other people had completely missed this in her. And in himself.

He became aware that if he was ever going to love someone again, it would almost definitely have to be Rainie Adler. And more to the point, that he already did love her. He just wasn't sure in what way he loved her.

Thanks to their mutual experiences, from here forward she would be the only one who could really see past his physical damage, the only one who wouldn't pity him any more than he pitied himself.

And here was the scary part: She was the only one—probably in his whole life—he'd ever, _ever_ felt totally safe with, safe enough to let down virtually all of his defenses—the only one who could ever completely understand him as he was now.

_Damn it!_ She was intelligent, she was witty, she was feisty and she was perceptive. Under the fear and the incredible physical frailty, she was just the kind of woman he would have been attracted to before… and the kind he would have zoomed like a high-speed train to get away from, to avoid her uncanny ability to pierce his façade.

But now…? Face it. His façade had already been pierced. He'd allowed her to see into his heart, shared things with her no one else knew. And somehow, she still liked him, still thought she was in love with him. It certainly wasn't his physical appearance that appealed to her. Much to his great surprise, he found that—perhaps because of what had happened to the both of them and because of her incredible fragility—he wasn't afraid of her, afraid of what she might do with that knowledge. He ought to be, but he wasn't. This wasn't good.

The timing couldn't be worse. It couldn't happen here, with the two of them essentially sharing a bed, with the entire world watching, in this fishbowl of a room, and with the whole medical ethics thing in the way.

But, yes, he loved her. Whatever that meant.

As his mind raced around the problem, Rainie sat defeated, her head drooping, her eyes opaque.

Once he finally got to the end of his thought process, he reached for her, but she pulled away. He reached out and turned her toward him once more, lifting her chin and making her look him in the eye.

"Listen to me," he said. "I don't know what this is, but you need to know…" _Should he say it? No, he shouldn't. He absolutely shouldn't. Stop before it's too late. Stop. Don't do it. Don't be an idiot. Don't go there. Really. Don't say it… _ "…it's mutual."

Her eyes opened, the soft light catching a glimmer of emotion.

"And you're not the only one who is terrified."

Hesitantly, he drew her closer to him. She resisted a little, but then, almost as if resigning herself, relaxed with a soft sigh.

Nestling her in the crook of his left arm, he caressed her face with his trembling right hand. The two of them, now observing each other intently, brought their faces closer. After a moment of examining one another, searching each other's eyes, looking for—something… what?—they kissed, tentatively at first, then with a passion that astonished him, that left him winded, heart racing.

"I must be out of my mind," he said when they finally stopped to breathe.

She nodded. "I know I am. So… what are we going to do?"

He shook his head. "I have no idea. But we can't let this happen. We have to put the brakes on."

She agreed. "Now you know why I pulled away, and why I felt so hopeless," she said, a hint of that sense of defeat returning to her voice.

"Yeah. I get it now. This could be a disaster. I don't think either of us knows if it's a reaction to all the trauma or if it's something that has legs. And the potential for hurting each other and ourselves is enormous."

She nodded. "Now that it's out in the open, now that we've acknowledged that we're both feeling something, is it even possible to set it aside, and just go on as we were?" she asked, and then, answering her own question: "I think we're going to have to try. Otherwise, we've just created a monster that's going to burn down our castle."

"You're absolutely right. We have to try. If for no other reason than it's unbelievably unethical of me to allow this to happen. So let's take it a moment at a time, and keep communicating, no matter how it turns out."

"Yes."

"But first…" He held her close and kissed her one more time, a kiss that shook him so deeply he felt it reverberate throughout his body. _Oh, lord, this is dangerous_. "That's going to have to last us a while."

She nodded again.

_You flaming jackass!_ he thought, suddenly furious with himself. _What's the matter with you? Kissing a patient? You're certifiable._ But then he thought of her lips on his, her body close to his, and he slowly realized how very much he craved not just physical affection but also a sense that he might still be desirable, despite everything, despite his battered body and shattered mind. And who else could accept him in this condition except someone who had been through the same levels of hell?

Not really comforted by that thought, he sighed heavily.

Once he got past his initial discomfort over what had just happened, he found himself thinking about Rainie and what the turn of events could mean to her. She was too delicate, her physical and emotional condition too precarious. He couldn't do this, couldn't let this happen. He couldn't risk letting her get hurt. He couldn't let himself get emotionally involved. He had to be strong. He had to stop it. Now.

Neither of them slept much that night.

And neither did Wilson, who had watched everything undetected from the couch in the corner of the room.


	48. Chapter 48: What Wilson Said

What Wilson Said…

"**A**re you out of your mind?!"

"Yes—yes." House took mental inventory. "I'm reasonably sure I am."

"You can't let this happen," said Wilson during Rainie's physio session the next morning. "You have to get out of this room. Do you have... any idea… how unhealthy this whole situation has become?"

"I've got a pretty good idea," replied House calmly, finding himself annoyed that Wilson had witnessed the events of last night, even more annoyed that he wouldn't let it go, and still more annoyed that he wasn't giving House credit for recognizing and dealing with the problem.

"I'm… I'm going to get you moved to another room. Today, if possible." He sounded determined.

House just looked at him.

"Gee, Wilson, what happened to the guy who said, 'I'm so sorry I interfered in your life, House, and I'll never do it again'? Or is it so ingrained in you that you just can't help yourself?"

That caught Wilson up short. He blinked a couple of times.

He looks like a rabbit, thought House randomly.

"For that matter," he continued, "where do you of all people get off judging me? I mean, it's not like you're unfamiliar with the concept of crossing this particular ethical line, right? Which, for the record, I'm trying very hard not to cross. I seem to recall you are the same fellow who not only had sex with one of his dying cancer patients, but actually moved into her apartment. So let me repeat: Where do you get off?!"

Wilson blinked again.

A big, pink rabbit.

"On top of that," said House, working up a head of steam, "while you were eavesdropping, you should have heard the part where we talked about how we need to put the brakes on and try to handle this in a way that won't hurt either one of us. Does that ring any bells? What led you to believe I was incapable of dealing with the situation?"

"House… I… uh…"

"Yeah. House. I. Uh. Well, drop it! This is none of your Goddamn business, and it wouldn't have become any of your business if you had been able to keep your nose out of mine. I don't need a Jewish mother, and I don't need a keeper. From now on, go home at night. I don't want you in here. Just leave."

In shock, Wilson stumbled out of the room.

When the door closed behind him, House laid his head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling for several minutes. Then he called Jacey Liu.

Instead of having Jacey come to room 304 and risk running into Rainie, House asked Selma, the nurse on duty, to help him into a wheelchair. Slowly, awkwardly, painfully, he got himself to the elevator and up to the fifth floor.

When he rolled through her doorway, Jacey looked up and said, "I gather something's developed."

House snorted. "You could say that," he replied cynically, then said nothing else.

After waiting a good minute, Jacey said, "So, do you want me to guess, or are you going to tell me?"

"Oh, go ahead and guess," said House.

"All righty then. Here's my guess: You figured out what was bothering Rainie, right?"

"Right."

"And it turned out to be you."

House's mouth dropped open.

"How the hell did you know? Has Wilson been up here?"

Jacey laughed, a deep throaty chuckle.

"No, not at all. It was pretty obvious. I was wondering how long it was going to take you to notice."

House suddenly wondered if his own feelings had been as transparent as Rainie's were. He shifted uneasily in the chair.

"And, yes, in answer to the question you haven't asked, I also suspected that there were feelings from your side, too."

Damn, she was disconcerting, thought House. Is this how everyone else feels when I tune into something?

"So now what?" asked House. "Is this a crush? Is it a reaction to our mutual traumas? Is it serious? What the hell do we do? Actually, what I really need to know is what the hell do _I_ do? It's not like we just met on equal footing at the pep rally. I'm her doctor, and I've—stupidly, I'm sure—set us up in the same room and worse yet, in the same bed. And she's just getting over the death of her husband."

"It may not be quite that bad. Don't forget," said Jacey, "she's had three years to deal with her husband's death, so that may not be a factor here. But there is a real danger because you two have turned to each other when you're both at your most vulnerable. It's completely understandable, but you need to be very careful, House. Protect her, and protect yourself. And that doesn't even touch on the ethical problem."

House put his head in his hands.

He knew this emotional stuff was going to get him into trouble.

"What the hell am I going to do?"

Jacey looked at him sadly.

"I can't tell you what to do. I can listen. I can suggest. I can give you the benefit of research and other people's experiences. But I can't tell you what to do. You're going to have to figure it out for yourselves."

House looked at his feet for a long time.

"I suppose I should let you know that I told off Wilson."

"Really? And why was that?"

He continued to stare at his feet.

"Wilson has a bad habit of butting into my business, which inevitably makes things worse."

"And how was he making this worse?"

House looked up briefly, then returned his gaze to the floor.

"Although we didn't know it, he was in the room last night when Rainie and I talked. Felt he just had to straighten me out… as if I wasn't already feeling like shit, and hadn't already figured out we had the potential for a major league catastrophe."

Ouch. This would be hard on Wilson, thought Jacey. He'd been House's sole emotional support for two years now, and in the last few weeks, his chickie done flew the coop. He was proud of being House's caretaker, and now his role was diminishing.

Plus it can't have been easy for Wilson to watch House lower his defenses with Rainie. He probably envied the closeness Rainie had developed with his prickly friend.

There was a reason why pride and envy were on the list of seven deadly sins, she thought.

She shifted back to the real topic.

"Greg, I don't want to see either you or Rainie get hurt anymore than is necessary. I want you to take some time to yourself and think this through as much as you can. I know it's hard, especially when emotions are involved, but see if you can separate what you want from what Rainie needs. For now, anyway, she's your patient, and you have an obligation to do no harm."

Do no harm. That exact phrase had been running through his head since last night. As for Wilson, he knew there was some wisdom in his suggestion that House move into another room, even if he was too annoyed at being bossed around to admit it.

"Thanks, Jacey. I'll keep you informed."

House wheeled himself back out of her office, and headed down the hall for Cuddy's.

In the old days, he'd have barged in without knocking. But this wasn't the old days, and somehow barging wasn't as effective in a wheelchair. He waited till she opened the door to let him in.

"We need to talk," he said, "before Wilson gets here."

Cuddy looked at him oddly. She'd just finished a call from Wilson saying he wanted to see her as soon as he was done with a patient.

"What's up? Everything okay?"

"No, everything is not okay. Or maybe it is. I don't know."

This was House? The man who always had the answers?

"Let me boil it down."

_But how? Jump right in. Rainie and I are in love. Urgh. That wouldn't do. Rainie has developed a crush on me, so I think we should stop sleeping together? No, that sounded idiotic. I may have to step down as her doctor so I can continue to sleep with her? Not any better. I'm in danger of violating my ethics as a doctor. Well, she'd just laugh at that one. When have I not violated ethical standards? _

"I'm waiting," said Cuddy, intensely curious, as she watched a series of emotions play across House's face.

"Okay. Here's the gist of it. Last night, Rainie told me she was…" _Somebody help me._ "…in love with me."

Cuddy's eyes opened wide.

Well, at least someone in this hospital didn't see it coming any more than I did, he thought.

"Yeah, I know. Obviously, our rooming situation is going to need to change and quickly. At the very least, we need to separate those beds again."

Cuddy nodded. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

"It's potentially a big mess. She's still so frail, both physically and emotionally."

And so, apparently, am I, he thought.

"I've just talked to Jacey about it."

_And told her much more than I'm telling you_, he thought, but Cuddy didn't need to know his emotions were involved, too—that is—damn it!—until Wilson told her, which House suddenly realized would be happening any minute now. Couldn't that man just keep his mouth shut?

"I need to be very careful about how this is handled. I can't have Rainie hurt any more, and especially not by me. I just wanted to keep you in the loop. If you've got any suggestions, I'm open to hearing them."

Asking for suggestions? That would shock Cuddy. And it did. Her mouth was still hanging open.

"I suspect we're both about due to be discharged soon anyway, and at that time we can reevaluate what's best for her. In the meantime, I'm going to have the beds separated."

Cuddy nodded, then looked up just as the door swung open and Wilson strode into the room. He didn't see House, who was off to his right and below his field of vision.

"Cuddy," he began, "House is…"

"…House is right here," said House quietly, and Wilson jumped. _Doesn't like it so much when somebody eavesdrops on him_, thought House irritably.

"I got to Cuddy first," House said. "Decided there was some merit in your suggestions, and I've already made my own recommendation. If you want to stop by later, I'll fill you in."

He turned and wheeled himself out of the office with the satisfaction of knowing he left behind him two very discombobulated people.


	49. Chapter 49: Vulnerability Exposed

Vulnerability Exposed…

**N**ow, to tell Rainie.

When he got back to the room, she was awake and trying to read.

An orderly helped him back onto the bed. He waited until the door shut.

She put her book down and looked at him over her glasses. Before he had a chance to say anything, she started talking.

"I've been thinking about this all day," she said, "and I think we need to separate these beds."

Now it was House's jaw that dropped open. Was everybody psychic today? He snapped it shut.

"Funny you should say that. I just got back from Cuddy's office and told her the same thing."

Rainie didn't seem surprised.

"I hope…" she started, "… that you don't feel you have to leave the room. I just think it's too dangerous to stay this close, after last night." She could still feel his hands on her face and his kiss on her lips. A shiver went through her.

"My thought exactly," said House, who was having trouble looking at her without thinking about how much he was going to miss having her by his side at night. "We're both smart, adult people, but we're also both vulnerable and, apparently, emotionally engaged. We talked about putting the brakes on, so that's the best way to start. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"One other thing you need to know. You're going to be discharged soon. Very early on, I made arrangements for you to have a place to live and receive full-time care."

"You did? That's… nice." She wasn't sure how she actually felt. It was, indeed, nice to know she had a place to go to, that she wouldn't have to live her whole life in this hospital, or have to fend for herself. But going to a strange place, a lonely place, after all this intimacy, was frightening.

"Well, maybe not so nice. The place I arranged for was the guest room in my apartment. Your room is being fixed up for you. Been in the works for weeks."

The corners of her mouth turned up and she started to laugh. Not another hysterical-verging-on-crying kind of laugh, but a real, hearty, genuine laugh. He immediately saw the humor in the situation. Once he got passed his anxiety, he laughed with her.

"Now that's funny," she said, when she finally got her breath. "Here I was, thinking you were going to foist me off on strangers."

"Not a chance," he said. "I need to keep an eye on you. Otherwise, you'll be off antagonizing hapless defense attorneys and running down murderous doctors in your wheelchair. Can't have that."

This made her laugh even more.

"Of course, this doesn't solve our problem, does it? Moving me into your home doesn't exactly keep us distant from our mutual feelings."

_Don't encourage her. Find the right impartial tone._

"Ah, but here's the part you didn't know. Mother Wilson lives next door. He won't let us get away with anything."

The idea of House calling Wilson "Mother Wilson," plus the fact that he lived next door to House, was just too much. She started hiccupping with laughter.

"Okay, okay. Slow it down. Not that funny." In fact, at the moment, it wasn't funny at all. Wilson showing up in the middle of the night might have a tendency to cramp his style, should it lead to that. But of course it couldn't lead to that. He had to make sure it didn't. Way too complex. Some serious ground rules were going to have to be laid down all the way around.

She took a couple of deep breaths.

"Better?"

"Yup."

"Good, because here they come to separate the beds."

Since the night before, House and Rainie had been very careful not to touch, not even once. But just before the beds were pulled apart, she gently touched his arm. He jolted as if a current had just run through him. He put his hand on hers, and she felt the current coming back to her. As he was swept away, they clasped hands, then touched fingers for a moment until they were literally out of reach of each other.

**A**s she finished up with a patient, Jacey Liu's cell phone rang.

"Got a minute?"

"Sure. Come on up."

A few minutes later, James Wilson settled himself into a chair across from her desk.

"I think I need… to talk to someone," he said, sighing.

"I'm here," replied Jacey, not terribly surprised to see him.

"It's House. He's… I don't know… well, I'm afraid he just can't handle all this."

"And why is that?" she asked. She kept her features neutral.

As she looked at him, she knew it wasn't really House who couldn't handle all this. It was Wilson himself. She'd seen it before. Things were changing much too fast for him, and he couldn't keep up. Once someone like House really started to find his bearings again, things tended to move swiftly, often leaving the caregiver in the wake.

Jacey saw seated before her a man who was emotionally and physically depleted, who had devoted himself to caring for his friend around the clock, in part out of friendship and in part from a sense of obligation, because of what House had been willing to go through on his behalf.

As grueling as it was caring for a wounded soul, it was sometimes equally difficult for caregivers to start letting go when the time came, because so much of their self-worth had become wrapped up in the role they had taken on. They invested themselves with the notion that the person they cared for would never be able to function without them. That kind of dependency has a real appeal, making the caregiver feel important and giving them a sense of fulfillment.

For two years now, Wilson had nursed House back to a semblance of health, making all the decisions for the both of them. It was apparent that he was having trouble dealing with House's transition from the shattered man he'd been to the independent person he was striving to become.

"I-I, um… well, dealing with Rainie has got to be taxing for him."

"Of course it is," she said. And then, prodding a little: "What makes you think he can't handle it?"

Wilson looked up at her, startled. What was she suggesting?

"Because of everything he's been through…" He let the sentence dangle for a moment expectantly, as if the end of the sentence were obvious. "…I just don't think he's ready."

"Why not?"

"Well, how _could_ he be?" Wilson sounded exasperated. How could she not see it? How could she not be aware that House had gotten in over his head? Why else would he have allowed himself to get involved like this? Especially after Pevey's attack. How on earth could House handle taking care of Rainie? And why was he letting himself get emotionally involved—House, who never let himself get emotionally involved?

Jacey thought a moment before responding.

"Does _he _think he's ready?"

This caught Wilson up short. He looked at her. To be blunt, he didn't know, because the possibility had never occurred to him, and because he'd never bothered to ask.

"James, is it possible that he's improving, and that maybe you've been a little too close to the situation to see it? Maybe he's fully aware of what he's doing. Maybe he's willing to take the risk. Is it possible that he knows exactly what he's gotten himself into?"

Somehow, he'd expected that Jacey would immediately recognize that House needed to back off and take care of himself before trying to care for someone else. Otherwise, Wilson was sure, he was in danger of sliding back into that terrible place he'd been in before, where he was incapable of functioning at all.

Instead, she seemed to be seeing something far different—not the Greg House who had lost his mind and wandered aimlessly for months. She was seeing a Greg House who was frail, yes, but who had found a real sense of purpose in the last few weeks, who was gaining strength from his new experiences.

Maybe he _was _too close to things. Wasn't this what he'd wanted, he argued with himself, for House to get better, to be able to have a life again?

He sighed again, feeling uneasy.

Perhaps, he thought, _he_ was the one being unreasonable. Perhaps.

"M-maybe. But… but don't you think this is dangerous, this business with Rainie? Couldn't he get hurt?"

"Certainly he could." Jacey smiled. "May I ask you why the thought of his possibly getting hurt in this situation bothers you so much?"

Wilson felt as if he were in a fog. All of a sudden, his brain wasn't working very well.

"It doesn't bother me, not really."

She looked at him sharply.

"Sure it does, James. Otherwise, why would you be here?"

Suddenly, Wilson found himself getting angry.

"I'm here because I'm concerned about my friend," he said, raising his voice. "He's going to hurt himself and you need to stop him."

"No," said Jacey, "I don't. Sorry. Not my business. And not my job. Let me ask this again: Why does it bother you so much? Why does it bother you so much you're getting angry at me just for asking the question?"

Wilson said nothing, perhaps because he had no answer. He was increasingly annoyed.

"Is it maybe because this change is scary for you? You've been so strong, and so caring for such a long time now, and things are shifting under your feet. The rules have changed, and maybe you don't know what they are anymore."

Wilson pursed his lips.

"Dammit, he got mad at me—told me he didn't want me in the room any more."

He waited. He was sure she was going to ask him how that made him feel. She didn't. Instead, she told him how he felt.

"Other than surprising you and hurting your feelings, why is that a bad thing?"

He stared at her, uncomprehending.

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"I meant what I said. Why is his getting mad at you a bad thing?"

He had no answer for this one, either.

"What was he like when you first starting taking care of him? Was that man someone who would have felt safe getting angry with you, with asserting himself, with exerting some level of control over his circumstances?"

Suddenly, Wilson's breath caught. No… no, of course not. That House didn't do much of anything except shiver; if he reacted to anything at all, it was in fear. This House, he finally realized, was a lot more like the old House than anything he'd seen in six years. This House was making his own decisions and was willing to live with the consequences of his actions.

And yet he was somehow different. He'd begun morphing into a totally new House… and maybe that's what was really upsetting Wilson, who didn't know what that new House would be like… or whether there would be a place for him in new House's world.

After thinking about it seriously for a long while, he finally answered calmly.

"No. No, he wouldn't have. I guess—I guess, to be honest, I'm actually more afraid for myself than I realized. Now that he's getting better, I guess I thought it would be like it was. I don't want to lose the friendship I once had. And I don't know if I'll ever get it back again."

Jacey smiled sympathetically.

"I don't know how to tell you this, James, but you won't. That friendship is gone."

Wilson stared at her. He could feel his heart beating.

"What do you mean?"

She nodded her head.

"I mean it's gone. Kaput. Listen to me carefully. This is not a bad thing. You two are friends who have both done truly remarkable things for each other. That's not going to change.

Wilson found he was listening to her acutely, focusing on her intense brown eyes.

"Because of what you've both been through, you'll never again have the friendship you once had. There's no way those experiences couldn't change things. However, by virtue of what's happened, you two have forged a strong bond that's not going to get broken because of a few dents and dings right now. I understand that it's scary, because neither one of you quite knows what the new ground rules are. But you'll find them, and you'll work things out over time."

Wilson nodded mutely.

"So what do I do now?" His emotions were a tempest, and he felt as if he were going to cry.

"I can't tell you what to do, but I can suggest what not to do. Don't try to force Greg into some mold you've created in your mind. What he's going through is extraordinarily healthy for him. Let him go through it. If you can bring yourself to do it, encourage these changes, even if you find them frightening. And come talk to me when you need to.

"Let him grow, James. Let him grow."

Wilson stumbled out of her office, dazed, with considerably more to think about than when he went in.

Jacey Liu sat at her desk, made some notes on a piece of paper… and smiled.

**K**aren Langley and Ian Yeung spent the better part of the morning in room 304, discussing the upcoming surgeries with their patients.

Langley would operate on Rainie in a couple of days, easing into the endless series of surgeries she faced with a fairly simple knee operation on her right leg. The physical therapists had been working to strengthen her upper body so she could use a walker and then crutches at least some of the time. Following the surgery, she'd spend the night at the hospital and then recuperate in House's guest room. Linda McAllister had visited House on a regular basis, so Rainie had already met her, which made it easier, and a couple of Linda's colleagues would take up the remaining hours of each day.

Yeung had decided at the last minute that House was ready for an initial surgery on one of his hands. House had chosen his right hand, hoping that if it were successful—or even partially successful—he could use his dominant hand more easily.

He hadn't mentioned this to anyone, but when he wasn't having nightmares, he'd been dreaming of playing the piano. It was the first time since the horror began that his nighttime hours were filled with anything but fear and dread. He'd hear the music, sense the vibrations as the sounds filled him, feel the melodies and harmonies under his fingers, and then see his hands, whole again, on the keys. But when he awoke, it was always with an overpowering sense of bereavement. If there was any way to regain some of what he'd lost, he had to try.

His surgery would be a couple of hours earlier than Rainie's, and then he'd spend the night back in room 304 so the two of them could go home together the following morning, barring complications.

The physical therapy team, which had started working with House as well as Rainie, would come to the apartment twice a day for sessions now, spending an hour with Rainie, followed by an hour with House.

**W**ilson sat in his office and stared out the window. He couldn't stop thinking about what Jacey Liu had said. His mind circled the ideas the conversation had generated as if he was running on a Möbius strip—around and around and around. And most of what he was thinking was this:

He was an idiot.

When would he learn to keep his mouth shut? If he'd just stayed out of it, House would have handled things quite well without him—as was apparent by the way he was… handling things quite well without him. But no! He had to play Mr. Fix-It once again. The end result being that House was pissed. Completely, utterly and quite justifiably pissed.

House was right. It was none of his damned business. He'd eavesdropped on a very private conversation, and then, instead of having the discretion and good grace to keep it to himself, had barged in where he wasn't wanted… or needed.

He knew perfectly well from listening to House and Rainie that they were approaching this difficult development in an adult, reasonable manner and handling it as well as it could be handled.

So why couldn't he just keep his mouth shut? Where did he get off trying to control the situation? And why did he care so damn much that he kept doing these idiotic things?

He heard how it sounded as it came out of his mouth. After all these years, he should learn. Wilson prided himself on his restraint in dealing with patients, his ability to allow them to make their own decisions. Why couldn't he do the same with House? Why couldn't he just let him alone? Why did he always think he knew better? If nothing else, experience should have proved to him that he never knew better when it came to House.

And of all topics to preach about. He, of all people, was in no position to judge anyone else's relationship with a patient.

No doubt about it. He was an idiot.

**A** cry and a whimper floated over from the other bed the night before their surgeries. House opened his eyes and saw Rainie thrashing around. He knew it was one of two things: pain or a nightmare. Possibly both. And he was too far away to reach out to her, to help.

"Hey," he called out. "You okay?"

The only answer was a hitched sigh and a low moan.

Nightmare?

He tried again.

"Rainie? Can you hear me?"

At first, nothing. Then, after a moment, a very small "yes" came his way.

He pressed the call button on his bed rail. Within seconds, the door whooshed open and Kate Marcus entered, the same young nurse he had banished a few nights earlier.

"Dr. House? What is it?"

"Check on Ms. Adler," he commanded.

She immediately went over to Rainie's bed.

"Ms. Adler?"

In the low light, he saw Rainie moving about, still crying out quietly.

"Are you in pain?"

"Uh-huh. _Ohhhh_…!"

"Up her pain meds," said House.

The nurse looked hesitant.

"Do it."

She did.

Within a few minutes, Rainie settled down and went to sleep.

House, on the other hand, never got back to sleep.

In short, a typical night.


	50. Chapter 50: Catching His Breath

Catching His Breath…

**H**is throat was sore and his tongue seemed to be made out of cotton balls. It was hard to catch his breath and his eyes just wouldn't open.

When he tried to sit up, he felt a hand on his shoulder pushing him back down. A voice very far away on the other side of a tunnel seemed to be saying, "Now, now, Dr. House. Lie still. Take it easy." He thought he heard another voice, one that sounded like Wilson—was it talking to him or to someone else?

His eyelids felt as if someone had covered them with a heavy blanket. Trying to open his eyes was an unfathomable effort, but he tried again. This time, his eyelids opened, closed, opened again and closed again.

"Here, let's get you sitting up a little more," a voice said. This time, he was able to open his eyes and keep them open for a while. The voice was attached to a nurse. What was her name anyway? Did he even know it? She held out a paper cup with a straw in it.

"Drink this," she said, like the bottle in _Alice in Wonderland_, only it had said, "Drink me."

He reached for the cup, and realized his right hand wasn't going anywhere. It was heavy, it was bandaged and it wasn't responding to his commands.

"Wilson," he said, just before his eyes closed again.

An hour later, he woke up much less muzzy. His eyes focused now, his tongue still felt woolly but more like a tongue and less like an oven mitt, and his brain seemed to be more active.

"There you are," said the no-name nurse.

"Where else should I be?" he asked, suddenly cranky.

She laughed. "Why, nowhere else, Dr. House."

Did nurses always talk this way, making no sense at all?

Now that he could look around, he did. The recovery room was big and open, and he seemed to be the only patient in it. Rainie must not be out of surgery yet.

He thought Wilson had been here, but now he wasn't. Since that day, House had barely spoken to him. Or to be more accurate, Wilson had barely spoken to House, and as House wasn't particularly mobile, it took more effort on House's part to track Wilson down than for Wilson to poke his head in now and then. Wilson had shown up in room 304 a couple of times over the last few days, stayed for only a few minutes and then left, looking guilty.

Well, he'd just have to get over it. House was in no mood to deal with Wilson's guilt. But he had expected to find him here now. Maybe House had indeed heard him earlier and he'd left to deal with a patient of his own.

Off to his right, he saw a gurney roll in. It was placed on the opposite side of the room. House tried to lift his head to see if Rainie was on it, but his head weighed too much, so he laid it back down and shut his eyes again.

When he opened them, he saw Wilson.

"Did you decide to join us again? That's quite a nap you've been having."

House smiled. Or at least he thought he did. He wasn't entirely sure.

"Wilson."

"Very good. You get a gold star."

"Thought you were here before." His voice was coming out very quiet and mumbly and scratchy, only some of which was normal. His throat still hurt. What happened to that cup with the straw?

Wilson saw him looking around as he tried to swallow. On the other side of the gurney, he saw a paper cup full of water. He reached over House and grabbed it.

"Want some?"

House nodded and tried to lift his head again. Too heavy.

Wilson propped the pillows behind his back and helped him into more of a sitting position, then brought the straw to his mouth so he could take a couple of small sips.

If he was going to spend his life in the recovery room with House, thought Wilson, at least this way was better than the last couple of visits, when he wasn't sure if House would survive. At least this time, House was conscious, if dopey, and would be going home tomorrow.

Despite their recent row, Wilson did what Wilson always did. He arranged things. House's side of the duplex was cleaned within an inch of its life, and made ready for its owner's return and for its new visitor. He and Linda had decorated Rainie's room. Wilson had interviewed and hired the two additional care workers who would be assisting Linda with House and Rainie. He had stocked the fridge and the cupboards, changed the sheets, and bought a selection of magazines and DVDs, organizing them on the coffee table for easy viewing.

The only thing he hadn't done was apologize. Apologizing to House hadn't worked out so well the last time, and he wasn't sure he was ready yet to try again, even though his guilt was working overtime.

House was trying to talk. At least, Wilson thought it was speech. It sounded more like the noises baboons make—sort of human but completely incomprehensible. Somewhere in the middle of it, he heard "Rainie."

Guessing at the rest, he answered. "They just brought her out. She's over there."

This time, House was more clear. "Did it go well?"

"I'll go check. Don't run off."

House smiled and closed his eyes again.

The ceiling was moving. Or maybe he was moving. Yes, that made more sense. He was moving through a corridor, lights flashing overhead, and then they disappeared as he was pushed into an elevator. Bodies hovered over him until the doors opened again and the lights returned. He stopped moving and felt himself being lifted up and rolled onto a bed. His bed. Well, not _his_ bed, but the bed that had been his for weeks now.

They'd rolled him onto his left side, so he could see that Rainie's bed was still empty. Had Wilson never come back, or did he just not remember if he had? Was Wilson still down in recovery, or was he here somewhere?

"Wilson?"

"Right here, big guy," said a voice behind him as the nurses adjusted his position and laid him on his back, plumping the pillows behind him. There he was, looking just like Wilson.

"Rainie?"

"Okay so far. They'll be bringing her up shortly. How's your hand?"

He'd forgotten all about his hand.

It was still heavy, but now he could see why. The bandaging made it at least three times its normal size.

"I think they attached a bowling ball. Anesthetic's still working. Can't feel a thing."

"Probably just as well. Yeung said this wasn't going to be a comfortable recuperation."

"Recuperations are never comfortable."

Wilson saw House trying to swallow again.

"Nurse, could we get some ice chips and cold water?"

**I**t took a few minutes for him to notice. At first, the odd noise, a rough chafing of fabric against fabric, barely filtered through his subconscious.

As House slept his drugged post-operative sleep, Wilson stayed in the chair next to the bed, abandoning the couch in the corner for a less comfortable position closer by. Dozing, he dreamed a strange fantasy of laundry being folded and beds being made. The chafing made a rhythmic, repetitive sound. At first, it was a _shhh shhh shhh_, then growing in intensity to become a _chhh chhh chhh_.

Not laundry. Not beds. Something else. He opened his eyes to see House's right arm twitching rhythmically, the bandages rubbing repetitively against the blanket. _Chhh chhh chhh_.

Neurological? Had Yeung nicked something in surgery?

Wilson looked up the forearm. Muscles stood out against the too-lean frame, pulsing with each _chhh_. The rest of the body was taut, anxious.

Scanning higher, Wilson saw House's open eyes, and was dismayed to recognize that chilling, unseeing stare.

He wasn't here. He was _there_, dredging up some horrible sense memory.

As realization dawned, Wilson's heart sank. House's brain, aware that his hand was encased, was subconsciously trying to escape from past restraints.

_As he pulled against them, the chains rattled. He knew it did no good, but still he tried. Straining again and again, for hours, until his wrist was blistered and bleeding, he struggled to get free. _

Wilson whispered, hoping to break through.

"House."

_Chhh chhh chhh_.

"Come on, House. It's okay. You're safe."

When he laid a comforting hand on his friend's arm, he heard a soft rustle from the other bed as Rainie moved beneath the covers.

_Chhh chhh chhh._

A look of fear and torment crossed House's face as he struggled.

_Chhh chhh chhh_.

Wilson stood up next to the bed to gain better access to his besieged friend. Speaking low, he tried to soothe the troubled mind to no avail as he wrapped his arms around House's upper body to hold him close until the crisis passed.

"I'm here," he murmured. "I'm here. It's all right."

_Chhh chhh chhh_.

Another rustle from Rainie.

Wilson glanced over to see that her eyes were now open, fixed on the scene next to her.

_Chhh chhh chhh_.

After a moment, she made the horrible connection between her own private hell and the tableau to her right, understanding in a burst what House was doing. Her eyes opened wide, and she began to gasp with anxiety. Suddenly she began screaming, the bloodcurdling sound shaking the room and vibrating throughout Wilson's body.

The twitching stopped for a moment, and then started up again.

Nurse Kate Marcus ran in.

"I've got it," said Wilson, shooing her back out of the room.

But he hadn't got it.

Torn between the familiar routine of trying to reassure House, who still seemed unaware of his surroundings, and reaching out to Rainie, who was rapidly plummeting into fully conscious hysteria, Wilson was momentarily immobilized.

For two years, Wilson had comforted House through nightmares and flashbacks and day-to-day struggles. For only a few weeks now, House had been attempting to do the same for Rainie. But right this minute, Rainie had no one. No one to sit by her side. No one to hold her when she was afraid. And right this minute, she was very afraid.

Wilson knew what he needed to do.

Quietly, Wilson slipped from House's side, and went over to the other bed, approaching Rainie hesitantly. Slowly, he reached out toward her. She stared at his hands, glancing back to look at House, still twitching. Her screams faded into sobs. Closing her eyes and drawing a deep fearful breath, she nodded just slightly, giving Wilson the okay to come closer.

She flinched and whimpered as he touched her, shying away and beginning to tremble with fear.

"I know, I know," he said gently. "I'm not Greg… but I'm his friend."

With that, she swallowed her terror, allowing him to hold her. Tense and quavering at first, she gradually relaxed as Wilson's voice whispered to her soothingly, crooning the same phrases he'd said to House countless times over endless days and weeks and months and years.

In the other bed, House's eyes slowly closed and the _chhh chhh chhh _became a _shhh shhh shhh_ and eventually died away.


	51. Chapter 51: Settling In

_**Author's Note: I'm finally publishing here the rest of A Gentle Knock at the Door. For those who might have already read it, Patient is a companion piece to this. It's not strictly a sequel, because it takes place during the same time period as A Gentle Knock.**_

_ Settling In…

**A**s she got settled, Rainie looked around. For the past four years, her field of vision had been limited. The confines of her cell and other parts of the prison, room 304, the occasional jaunt to physical therapy and a few trips to the courthouse. Now she had a new room, a new place.

The room was bright and sunny, recently painted a muted butter yellow, with curtained windows off to her right. Someone had hung reproductions of French art posters around the room, and the comforter picked up the yellows and reds from the artwork. Everything about the bed was soft—the silky fabrics of the comforter and sheets and pillowcases, the pillows and the featherbed itself. Someone had thought to make it as comfortable for her as possible.

It was a warm room, not too feminine, but it had a definite artistic flair, and it was clear that the someone who had chosen the colors and the art—Wilson, perhaps—wanted her to feel welcome. She did indeed; her sense of gratitude over the effort almost brought tears.

Next to her was a large bedside table, covered with all her books and magazines, her glasses perched on top. Beside the books was a new laptop computer and printer, a "welcome back to the real world" present from Evan. Her clothes, the gifts from Cuddy, hung in the closet straight ahead of her and lay carefully folded in the dresser drawers to her left. Now that she was out of the hospital, she'd be able to wear them. Evan was planning to visit sometime tomorrow, and she was actually looking forward to dressing up for him.

In the next room, House was home, back in his own bed and his own room, although his room was more austere than Rainie's. When Wilson first bought this duplex and moved House in, there'd been no point in trying to have it reflect House's taste… because there was no guarantee that he'd ever appreciate it. As he got better and as his recovery took all of Wilson's time and energy, decorating was the least of their concerns. So, with the exception of Rainie's room, the apartment was nondescript. No pictures on the walls, few bookcases, a large flat screen TV occupying one wall in the living room and a smaller one in each bedroom, some comfortable furniture—Wilson had insisted on that. But otherwise, it was devoid of personality.

Mother Wilson had accompanied them home, their wheelchairs folded up in his trunk. Once inside the apartment, he and Linda McAllister got Rainie settled in her room, and then wheeled House to his. The strain of the move was enough to knock both of them out for a couple of hours.

**K**a-thump. Ka-thump. Ka-thump.

House awoke to hear a strange noise emanating from the living room. His hand, propped up on an elevation pillow, was starting to twinge, as he'd known it would, but at least he no longer felt groggy. As instructed by Dr. Yeung, he gently stretched his hand inside the bandage and then tried to clench his fist. The movement was a little painful, but nothing compared with what he'd been through in the past, and therefore not worth bothering about. For once House had incentive to follow instructions. If it meant getting the use of his hands back, he would be a good patient, even if it went against type.

"Hey!" he called out.

Ka-thump. Ka-thump.

A face appeared in his doorway, followed by two hands and a walker. Rainie was paying a visit.

"Hi, there!" she said, cheerfully, as she leaned heavily on the walker.

She couldn't help noticing—noticing was her greatest asset as well as her biggest downfall—how his blue eyes began to twinkle when he saw her at the door, how the edges of his mouth involuntarily turned up just a smidge. Her heart leapt up.

"Well, hello. Out for a stroll in the country?"

She smiled. House mentally monitored his increasing heart rate.

Just because they'd diagnosed the problem—powerful reciprocal attraction—didn't mean they'd come up with a treatment. Despite his serious concerns, House hadn't really thought through the logistics of sharing an apartment with Rainie. If just seeing her in the doorway could affect him, how were they going to handle it when both of them were up and about and running into each other?

"Thought I'd take my morning constitutional in the afternoon today. Mind if I try to sit?" she asked, pointing at the recliner in the corner.

"Be my guest."

"Good. You couldn't possibly understand this, but the whole walking thing is a lot harder than it looks. Can't imagine how our ancestors came up with the idea."

As she'd hoped, he laughed.

Attempting not to grimace, and not succeeding particularly well, she ka-thumped her way to the chair, and then concentrated on what it would take to get turned around so she could sit. First she angled the walker toward her right. Then, leaning heavily on the left side of it, she moved her left leg quickly around, keeping her weight on the right leg as little as possible. By inching around that way, she eventually got herself positioned and plopped down on the edge of the chair, wincing at the occasional pang.

At last, she was seated, her bandaged and braced right leg sticking out in front of her.

"Well! What an adventure! I've been to the bathroom, bathed and gotten myself dressed—with help from Linda—explored the living room and the kitchen, had my lunch, and now I've come a-calling. I'm so tired, you'd think I'd just gone to South America and back."

He laughed. "You don't look any the worse for wear."

"Well, thank you, kind sir. In actuality, I'm dead."

She flung herself back against the chair dramatically, her arm draped over her forehead, and closed her eyes for a moment before sitting up again and smiling at him. Once more he felt his heart speed up.

Then the tone of her voice changed as she asked, "How are you? How's the hand?"

"So far, so good. It weighs 300 pounds, and it's got a twinge, but not bad. How's the leg?"

"Oh, fine. I'm so doped up, I can't feel much at all. In fact, they told me to be very careful, because I guess I can hurt myself without realizing it. But you know this routine already."

He nodded. It had a familiar ring to it.

She leaned forward on the walker, pressing down with her shoulders to hoist herself up, but rising only an inch or so off the chair, and then sitting back down with a grunt.

"You'd better get back to bed."

"You're right, and I'd love to, but I don't think I can stand up now that I've gotten myself situated here." She gave him an awkward smile mixed with frustration.

Quite suddenly, she was completely depleted. He saw the energy simply drain out of her, aware of purple circles under her eyes and a fragile, translucent quality to her skin. She's seriously overdone it, he thought. She needs to sleep. Now.

"Linda!"

Linda McAllister answered House's call within a few seconds.

"Rainie's gotten herself stuck in the chair. Can you help her up and get her back to bed?"

"Sure thing, doc. Is there anything you need as long as I'm here?"

"I'll think about it. Get her settled and then stop back in."

Linda went over to Rainie, who was trying to keep her eyes open. Taking her arm, Linda started to lift her up when Rainie winced in pain. A quick evaluation of the situation, and Linda made up her mind.

"She's not going anywhere for right now," she said. "We've got to let her rest and she's done enough on that leg for now."

"No, I need to go back to my room," insisted Rainie, struggling to get out of the chair. She glanced uncomfortably at House, silently pleading with him to understand that she hadn't intended to encroach on his space. "Just help me up, and I'll be all right."

She grabbed the walker and tried to pull herself upright, but couldn't get the momentum going to leave the chair. Never before had she realized how necessary knees were to the standing process. House saw her fighting back tears of frustration as she strained to stand up. Linda stood to the side, allowing Rainie to try on her own.

"Rainie," House said softly. "Rainie, listen to me. Don't worry about it."

She sat back down abruptly, and looked at him.

"I-I didn't want…" she started.

"I know. We're going to have uncomfortable moments, and we're just going to have to find a way to handle them."

He looked up and saw Linda looking at him curiously.

"Could you leave us for a minute?" he asked.

Even more curious, she complied reluctantly.

Defeated, Rainie set her jaw and stared at him. "How the hell are we going to deal with this?" she asked, so tired that just getting the words out was an effort. "This is almost worse than the hospital. There's no one here but us and Linda, and I feel pathetically self-conscious."

_This was going to be tricky, walking a fine line between caring for her and… well, caring for her._

Much to her surprise, he laughed.

"I don't know the answer," he said. "Let's face it, we're cooped up in this apartment together. Either one of us moves out, or we're going to run into each other, and probably share rooms on occasion. I don't know what to do, but pretending isn't going to work."

_Had he, Mr. Avoidance, actually said that?_

She met his eyes and nodded remorsefully.

"You win. But what do we actually say to each other? How do we behave?"

_Now there's a good question. How do we behave? _

"Beats me. But let's start with this: As your doctor, I'm not going to let you walk back to your room right now. You're going to settle into this chair and rest. And for the record, I have no problem if you decide to visit me again whenever you like. Just be yourself. This is your home now, too. Go where you like when you like. If things get too uncomfortable, we'll figure out a way to deal with it."

"Okay," she said, although she looked dubious.

House called Linda back into the room, and asked her to get some pillows and a blanket. After handing Rainie a cup of water and the next dose of her pain meds, reclining the chair, propping her leg up high on three pillows and covering her in a warm blanket, Linda turned her attention to House.

"Lunch?"

"I think so. What do you have for me today?"

"Got some sugar cookies, but only after you've eaten something healthy. Ham sandwich, veggies and chips?"

"Sure."

"How's the hand?"

"Starting to throb." He stretched and clenched again inside the bandaging.

"You're about due, too. I'll bring the meds in a minute. Got the remote? Want a DVD?"

"I'm good. Just lunch and the meds for now."

When he looked over, he saw Rainie sound asleep in the chair. All he could see were her eyelashes and the tip of her nose peeking out from under the blanket.

Maybe it would have been better if he'd sent her somewhere else, he thought. But the part of him that wasn't connected to his overactive brain was pleased that he hadn't.


	52. Chapter 52: House Rules

House Rules…

**W**ilson stopped by on his way home, letting himself in with his key. As soon as he opened the door, he saw the patients sitting at opposite ends of the living room sofa arguing over the television remote. House's right arm was propped up on the back of the sofa, and Rainie's leg was lifted high enough off the coffee table that she could barely see over the tip of her big toe.

"But I don't want to watch _General Hospital_," she whined as Wilson came in.

"My house. My remote. My TiVo. My rules," said House, being as infuriating as he knew how to be.

"There are two other TVs in this place. If you want to look at something I don't want to watch, go to your room." She looked at him defiantly. "You're more mobile than I am. I'm stuck here. And I'm_ not_ watching _General Hospital_."

He glared at her. She glared back. After a long minute, he handed her the remote.

"Fine!" he said, still glaring.

Wilson was thunderstruck. She won? She just stared him down, and he gave up?

"Hi, guys," said Wilson.

"Hi, Mom," said Rainie, turning her head to glance at him over her left shoulder. "Whadja bring us?"

House threw his head back and laughed. A deep, throaty, relaxed, unabashed chortle.

Wait a second. House laughed?

House hadn't laughed like that in years. It was the end of the universe as Wilson knew it.

**T**hree days later, Rainie was more mobile and less tired. House's cumbersome bandage had been exchanged for a splint, and he'd started intensive hand therapy, which was proving to be both frustrating and, as predicted, painful.

House and Rainie settled into an uneasy alliance, trying to keep conversations light and their interactions detached but friendly, even though both were constantly aware of the chemistry between them and a little too observant of each other's reactions.

During her daily visit, Jacey Liu settled herself in a plush chair next to Rainie's bed.

"So tell me how you're doing," she said.

Rainie shook her head. "Physically, fine, I guess. Emotionally, this is really difficult."

"In what way? Because of Greg?"

No secrets.

Rainie sighed. "Uh-huh. I keep telling myself that what I'm feeling isn't real, that these feelings are just a reaction to what's happened. But then I see him, and my heart starts beating and I can't catch my breath. It would have been a lot easier if he didn't feel the same way, if this was a simple unrequited crush. Or if he wasn't just over there." She gestured toward the opposite wall, the one adjoining his bedroom.

Jacey said nothing, just waited.

Rainie stared out the window.

"The only other person I've ever felt this way about was Jeff. It's all so stupid. I know I'm in no condition to make intelligent decisions, and yet I can't help how I feel."

"Are you up to talking about anything else?"

She exhaled slowly.

"You mean what happened…? Thompson…? Prison?"

Jacey nodded. Sooner or later, Rainie Adler was going to have to deal with what had been done to her and to her life.

Rainie continued to stare out the window.

"I don't know. In a way, it feels safer to focus on today, on right now, on these scary feelings about Greg than to allow myself to look back at what brought me here."

"Perfectly understandable. At least your feelings for Greg have a positive side to them, and provide you with some hope." Jacey waited.

"Yes, but are they real? I keep waiting to come back to my senses, to get over it. And then I hear his voice down the hall or I see him, and I go goofy all over again."

"I don't know what to tell you, Rainie. I could say that this is a transient thing, but I don't know that it's true. I do know there's potential for you to get badly hurt—which I don't want to see happen to either one of you—but I'm not in a position to say that what you're feeling isn't real or can't last."

Rainie smiled ruefully. "I was kind of hoping you'd say it was ridiculous and to get over it."

"Of course you were. That would be easier, wouldn't it?"

"Uh-huh. I guess if there's anything I've learned it's that things are never going to be easy for me again."

Jacey smiled back. "At some point, we need to examine your other experiences. I don't know if it's time yet, but I want you to start pondering whether you're ready to talk. I understand that it's really scary, but you have to do it. I've already said this to Greg, but I'll say it to you now. If you don't deal with this soon, you will undoubtedly deal with it later. And the longer you wait, the harder it will be."

Knowing that what she said was probably true, Rainie still fought against the idea of allowing herself to revisit what had happened.

She tried to let her mind go to that dark time. Jacey saw her flinch, painful emotions trampling the other expressions on her face.

"Can't. Just can't do it," was all she said.

"Don't worry. We'll get there. I'll be right here. I'm not going anyplace. In the meantime, try to enjoy what you have now, even if that's scary, too."

"Linda! I dropped the remote," came House's voice from the other room.

With those five words, Rainie Adler was done for.

**PRINCETON **(AP) — Dr. Alan Pevey, who was convicted two weeks ago in a murderous assault on a colleague, was sentenced today to life in prison without the possibility of parole.

Pevey, who attacked Dr. Gregory House in his home two months ago, became violent when the sentence was announced, blaming House for his conviction. He struggled with court officers as he was taken out of the courtroom.

**I**t was one of those hot, muggy summer days in New Jersey that air conditioning can't quite overcome, the kind that never cool off and are still miserable at midnight, which happened to be when Wilson got home. He hated to open the car door and make the short trek through the sweltering, moist air to his own front door, but it had to be done. As he grappled with his keys, sweat dripping down his neck and onto his clothes, he looked to the left, to House's place.

Get over it, he thought to himself. It's not his problem—it's yours. He's not making you feel unwelcome. You're doing that to yourself.

Wilson's guilt over butting into House's life again had continued unabated, and, in fact, has escalated. He couldn't get past it, and as a result, the pendulum of their friendship had swung far in the other direction, with Wilson stepping way back and feeling awkward every time he opened his mouth, convinced that his very presence was an intrusion into his friend's private life.

For the first time, Wilson felt uncomfortable in House's half of the duplex. The casual TV evenings were history, now that Rainie was living there. It wasn't House's fault, and it certainly wasn't Rainie's. It was just that Wilson felt clumsy and gauche, like an outsider and an intruder.

House and Rainie clearly shared a close connection, one vastly different from his own friendship with House, and he had to admit he found it disconcerting.

Wilson caught himself watching them a little too closely, listening a little too carefully. Even though it was still none of his business, he couldn't seem to help himself. He analyzed every word, every look, every gesture between them, trying to divine the subtext. He spent far too much time wondering if their attraction was leading them into a dangerous area, if perhaps they'd already started careening down that ski slope that would injure them both. Was House handling it all right? Was he going to get hurt again? Would Wilson have to pick up the pieces? Again?

Despite his qualms, he attempted to behave as if things were normal. He showed up with dinner on a regular basis, and when nightmares hit—which was often—he still grabbed his keys and ran over to help, sometimes finding Rainie in House's room comforting him, or House in Rainie's room comforting her.

On especially bad nights, he still offered to sleep in the recliner, just to make sure House was okay. But their relationship had shifted gears, and just as often, House suggested that perhaps Wilson should sleep in his own bed.

He didn't know what it was he wanted for them, what he expected or even what he feared. All he knew was that he wasn't a part of it, and he'd done that to himself.

His brain recognized that House had to move forward, that this newfound independence was a good thing, a major accomplishment, given where House had been two years ago, a year ago, six months ago, and that his openness with Rainie was an even better thing. He fought the temptation to begrudge Rainie her place in House's life, hating himself all the more for occasionally resenting her. God knows she was dealing with so much—both emotional and physical—she didn't need to be the unwitting recipient of Wilson's angst.

Mostly, Wilson needed to be needed, and simply put, House didn't need him now as much as he had. As a result, Wilson was having a hard time letting go and adjusting to the new ground rules. He'd given up a lot for his friend two years ago, and now, as House's hard-won independence enabled him to begin creating a new life for himself, he had handed Wilson his own life back. The problem was, Wilson didn't know what to do with that life now that he had it.

So he unlocked his door and went inside, alone.

**H**ouse's right hand was showing marked improvement. He had regained a lot of fine motor skills, the trembling had almost disappeared and his fingers, no longer jutting out at odd angles, were beginning to reclaim their strength. The recuperation had, indeed, been painful, but given the levels of pain House had grown accustomed to, this seemed minor in comparison.

He'd had a good start, Dr. Yeung told him, adding that he might need a couple of additional surgeries on this hand. The next step would be a similar operation on his left hand, scheduled for two weeks from now.

For the most part, House still used the wheelchair, but had started using a walker now and then. Rainie, too, was graduating, in her case to crutches, at least some of the time. Her right leg had healed well, but recuperation and therapy were slow, and Karen Langley wanted to wait another month or so before operating on the left one.

One day, about six weeks after their initial surgeries, as Rainie was having her therapy, House ka-thumped to the closet door. There, in the back, was the roll-up keyboard. He stared at it for a long time before finally dragging the box out of the closet.

After struggling with the box for a good ten minutes, he finally got it into the middle of the room and opened it up. Clearing a space on the coffee table, he placed the contents on the left side and rolled out the keyboard.

No doubt about it. He was terrified. So terrified, he couldn't relate what he was feeling to anything he'd ever felt before. Being able to play again was all that mattered to him. He didn't care if he couldn't walk, probably didn't care if he never worked again, if he could just make music.

Glancing at the directions, he turned it on. Flexing the fingers of his right hand, he reached tremulously toward the keys.

He pressed middle C with his thumb. Middle C played. That was a start. Now D with his forefinger. E with his middle finger. Thumb under for F. That was tricky. And painful. But he did it. Forefinger again for G. Middle finger for A. The always weak fourth finger for B. And back to C with the pinky. A simple scale.

All the notes played, although it would take him time and practice to build up any kind of technique to be able to control how those notes sounded.

Holding his breath, he tried a simple C chord, C on the top, where his pinky still rested; the E under his thumb and the G with his forefinger.

It was music. Not good music, but it was music and he had made it. A wave of emotion swept over him. Maybe he hadn't lost everything. Maybe—just maybe—he could have something of his old life back again. Maybe Thompson hadn't stolen everything.

The emotions overwhelmed him for a moment, and he found himself sighing in relief before he crammed the feelings back inside.

Over the next month, as Rainie was sleeping or bathing or in therapy, he practiced. Certainly, he had no technique, and it would take a lot of time just to get his fingers to do what his brain instructed, but he could hear the potential. Despite everything that had happened, his playing was no worse than it had been when he was first learning. And since the real ability to create music resides for the most part in the brain, not the hands, House knew he just needed to get the muscles of his hand to obey his commands.

It was slow, and it was frustrating, but for the first time in many years, music belonged to him again.


	53. Chapter 53: Siren in the Night

Siren in the Night…

**A**n ambulance was barreling toward the emergency room, siren screaming into the night. Only there was no ambulance and it wasn't a siren. It was a scream.

Evan Schuster woke with a start, sleepily trying to get his bearings as the scream pierced the air. Blinking, he realized he was in Rainie's room. He'd fallen asleep in the chair next to her bed after volunteering to take the night shift when Linda had a family emergency.

Rainie's eyes were wide open and she was sitting up in the bed. It was the first time he'd seen her like this, although—being the good journalist he was—he knew she was having a flashback. He'd done enough research into post-traumatic stress disorder to recognize one when he saw it. His brain got busy collating what he'd read with what was before him.

Jumping up, he stood next to the bed and stared at her, trying to figure out what to do.

"Rainie, honey, wake up. It's all right. No one's gonna hurt you now."

But his best friend continued to scream. She was trembling and gasping for air.

He had no idea how to handle it. Afraid to touch her for fear of making it worse, he froze.

"Oh, please, punkin. It's Evan. I'm here. You're safe." Seriously out of his league, he was beginning to feel desperate.

As the shrieks began to die down, Wilson came running into the room carrying his keys.

"What do I do?!" whispered Evan frantically, hating to admit to himself that he was relieved he hadn't been left alone to deal with the situation.

"Nothing. Just ride it out," said the voice of experience. "And be ready when she wakes up."

"Ready for what?"

"You'll find out."

From next door, Evan heard House's raspy voice, but couldn't quite make out what he was saying. Apparently, though, Wilson could, having learned over time how to decipher his friend's muted speech, even through walls.

"No, no," called out Wilson. "Stay there. We've got it under control."

Another indecipherable rasp.

"I said, stay put. Go back to sleep."

But House wasn't going back to sleep and he wasn't staying put. As Rainie's cries got quieter, a wheelchair came through the door, making the bedroom seem crowded until House rolled himself past Evan and Wilson to the far side of the bed.

In the meantime, Rainie slowly became conscious again, sobs replacing her screams. Suddenly she realized her room was full of people. She started violently, and began to cry out, terrified.

Touching Evan on the arm and nodding toward the door, Wilson eased himself back out the room. Evan followed. They stood in the doorway and waited.

"Don't worry. House will handle it," whispered Wilson reassuringly. "He's been through this with her before."

_He had? How often did this happen?_ With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Evan suddenly realized he hadn't given much thought to what Rainie was going through when he wasn't actually present. _You self-centered ass_, he reproached himself. It wasn't bad enough that she'd had to live through something so atrocious, but to relive it again and again, with her best friend not even caring enough to find out what was going on… or trying be there for her—it was too much. He felt his face flush with shame.

As he pulled himself together, Evan closely examined the man standing next to him. The two had met a few times in room 304, but had never talked much. Now he found himself wondering about this man who had become so accustomed to House's terrors that he stayed calm in the face of Rainie's.

James Wilson was moderately tall with a slender build, and Evan couldn't put a finger on his age—he suspected Wilson was younger than he seemed, that the experiences of the past few years had aged him, lining his face and graying his hair.

Just what _had_ Wilson been through over the past six years? First, losing his friend to prison, and now this endless recuperation, dealing with God knows what on a daily basis. Evan slowly become conscious of the fact that in many ways he probably had more in common with James Wilson than with anyone else he knew. No one but Wilson could understand how he had felt when Rainie pushed him away and then went to prison for murder. And now this. Yet he'd never thought to ask Wilson what it was like, to try to prepare himself for how to become a friend all over again to the person Rainie had now become.

What kind of life _did_ Wilson lead? Always ready, in case House needed something. Never really sleeping. Always there. It had to be exhausting. And draining. Could he do the same for Rainie? He'd like to believe he could, but he doubted it somehow.

From inside the room he could still hear Rainie's cries, just starting to settle down.

"Hey," said House gently, reaching out his right hand and placing it on hers. "Better?"

After a pause, Evan saw her shake her head no.

"Bad one?" said House sympathetically.

She nodded and began to cry again.

He handed her a tissue and watched her blow her nose, and then Evan saw a look of concern on his face as her cries grew louder, not softer, her body shaking as she bent forward and sobbed.

With a pained grunt, House clambered up on the bed and circled her thin shoulders with his left arm.

"Brace yourself," whispered Wilson in Evan's right ear.

"For what…?" asked Evan, anxiety slowly bubbling up in him like a hot water spring.

Wilson didn't reply.

"How often…?" Evan asked Wilson quietly after a moment.

"Depends. The trials, the surgery, the move—probably stirred things up."

Evan looked again at the pair on the bed, House holding tight to Rainie as she wept.

Experience, in the form of Wilson, whispered in his ear: "This is going to be a bad one."

Wondering how Wilson could tell, Evan glanced back into the room and saw Rainie gripping onto House as her sobs tore through her.

None of them said anything for a few moments.

Then Rainie spoke softly.

"This time, it wasn't about… well, you know. It was about…"

Evan could tell she was having difficulty getting words out. Her voice got extremely quiet, as if she didn't want anyone to hear her. He could just make out what she said.

"…when they raped me."

Her eyes reflecting her troubled soul, she glanced up at House and then hastily looked away.

"D-did my medical records tell you?"

"Tell me what, Rainie?" House's voice was low and gentle.

"About… about the abortions?"

Involuntarily, Evan gasped. House's angry eyes snapped onto his for a moment and then softened as they returned to Rainie's face.

Wilson put his fingers to his lips.

"What about them?" asked House, who in his prior life had always been an advocate of abortion, especially in the case of rape. He forced himself to sound calm.

"Did you know?"

House paused before answering. Then he nodded slowly, his eyes drifting downward, away from hers for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost as quiet as hers.

"I knew. Three, maybe four of them?"

As his eyes returned to hers, she averted her gaze.

"Did they tell you h-how…?" She bit her lip hard, and her face distorted in a vain attempt to hold her emotions back.

House shook his head.

She shuddered and clutched him tighter.

"The r-rapes… all the time… pregnant."

House adjusted his hold on her as Evan, sick at heart, stared from the doorway.

"…H-how could they?" she whispered.

Evan somehow guessed that she wasn't asking how they could have raped her. It was something more, something worse. As Wilson had suggested, he braced himself. Evan saw House wince for a moment as his own nightmare flooded back in, and then as he shook it off as much as he could.

"How could they what, Rainie?"

She began to shake even more. Lost in her own mind, she began to cry again, burying her face in his chest. After a few moments, she took a very deep breath, and forced herself to speak again. As she did, her voice quavered.

"…You don't know…"

"Know what?"

"…T-two of the times, they… _oh dear God! Evie!_… they made me c-carry the child…"

As Evan and Wilson exchanged a horrified glance, Evan heard a sharp intake of breath from House. Then the room grew very still.

"…c-carry it for months… till I could feel it moving inside me… not _my _baby, not my Evie… but something… f-forced on me out of that kind of hatred…"

Evan's heart simply stopped beating as he listened in shock. The reality of what Rainie had been through finally began to seep in, and there were no words strong enough to describe how it appalled him, horrified him, revolted him.

He'd never allowed himself to really think about what might actually have happened to her. Now, forced to confront it like this, the mindless, vicious—premeditated—violence that had been inflicted on her, he felt violently sick. He turned his head, swallowed and took a few slow, deep breaths to try to keep himself from throwing up. After a moment, he felt Wilson's sympathetic hand on his back.

A long silence settled. Eventually, she spoke again, in a halting, low voice.

"…_Then _they aborted it, after I'd felt it inside me…"

Finally, House spoke, his voice shaky.

"When?" was all he said.

Her anguished face turned up toward him.

"N-not sure… five, six, seven months," she said softly, as her cries started again.

Another long pause.

"Then… afterward… they forced me see it… made me look at it…"

She buried her face in his chest once more as she lost control, her entire body trembling wildly, her cries loud and desolate.

"…They… made me touch it… m-made me… …_hold_ it…"

Her wracking sobs were so strong the bed shook.

"Dear God," said House the atheist in a very low voice, as he closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. This was something not even he had experienced, or could even have imagined, and it shook him deeply and desperately. He clung onto Rainie, his head bowed over hers, his long arms encircling her body. Angry tears ran over his cheeks and onto his chin, creating streams through his stubble before dripping down onto her hair.

Evan began to sob, and slid slowly to the floor. Wilson sat down next to him and put his arm around Evan's shoulders, as House was doing for Rainie. When Evan opened his eyes, he saw that Wilson was crying, too.

Over the next hour, all four continued to cry until finally, exhausted, one by one they fell asleep where they were.

The next morning, Evan awoke to find himself unexpectedly on the sofa in the living room. He had no idea how he'd gotten there, but he had his suspicions… If Wilson could deal with everything House had been through, and now Rainie, maneuvering a sleeping Evan to a more comfortable place to rest was child's play.


	54. Chapter 54: Uncomfortable and Painful

It's Uncomfortable and It's Painful…

**L**ying on her back and keeping her leg straight, Rainie tried to lift her right leg up. In theory, she was supposed to be able to lift it about a foot up off the bed and hold it there for ten seconds and then gently set it down. In practice, she could barely lift it at all, lucky if it raised an inch, and it hurt like hell just doing that much.

She tried again. A little better this time.

"You're doing fine," said Claudia DuBois, the physical therapist _du jour_. "Try it one more time, and then we'll move on."

With a grunt, Rainie strained to lift the leg. It went higher this time. Her stomach muscles quivered as she tried to hold the leg in the air. She lasted about four seconds before the leg crashed back down on the bed.

"Who'd have thought something so simple would be so hard?" she panted, out of breath.

"I know," said DuBois sympathetically. "We've got to strengthen those muscles. Next time, I want you to try to raise and lower it slowly—better workout for the muscles. Now roll over on your stomach."

It took an effort, but eventually Rainie was able to roll over.

"Now, lift your leg back and hold for a count of ten," said DuBois. "Same routine, and then we'll try the side."

Once her exertions were completed Claudia DuBois gave Rainie a massage, followed by heat and ice. At the end of every session, Rainie was so exhausted, she slept for an hour or so.

**A**fter that horrific night, Evan struggled with himself. His instinct was flight, to get as far away from those painful thoughts as he could. But the caring, reasoning part of him knew he couldn't do that and live with himself later. So he began coming to the duplex more often, instead of less, and on his own did a lot of research into PTSD treatments, trying anxiously to prepare himself for whatever might come.

When, on a Thursday morning, as he sat at his desk at work, he got a call from Jacey Liu, he was surprised.

"Evan, it's Jacey Liu, Rainie's psychotherapist."

"Hi. What can I do for you?"

"It occurred to me the other day that perhaps you and James Wilson might be interested in setting up some sessions to talk about your roles as friends and caregivers for Greg and Rainie. I've already talked to Dr. Wilson, and he suggested next Wednesday at two in my office at the hospital."

Interested? Hell, yes. Evan was a firm believer in becoming as educated and as prepared as possible in every situation. Nothing would please him more right now than to be able to pick Wilson's brain for a while. And being able to talk about his own feelings might not be a bad idea either.

"Good," said Jacey. "Next Wednesday then."

**W**hen Rainie came through the door of House's room, she found him sitting up in bed, a breakfast tray perched high over his legs, his laptop on the tray, tapping away at the keyboard.

"What's up?" she asked.

"Email from Chase about a case," he said, not elaborating.

As a working journalist, she knew nothing was more disruptive to the writing process than conversation. She waited until he was finished before speaking.

"You'll be going back to work soon, won't you?"

He looked thoughtful.

"Probably," he said. "Part time. Will that be a problem for you?"

Now she looked thoughtful.

"No… no. I think it's good. You need to get back to work, and I guess I need time to myself to figure some things out."

What she really meant was time to think when House's intoxicating presence didn't overwhelm her.

"So it's good?" said House, glancing at her briefly as he sent his email to the printer on his dresser.

"Yes, it's good."

**J**acey Liu had been right. The nightmares got worse, and the flashbacks got worse. As the weeks went by, both of her patients were increasingly agitated and upset. Although she had prescribed paroxetine for their depression and anxiety, and clonidine for their nightmares and sleep problems, both House and Rainie remained angry and frightened and skittish and depressed.

But they _were _going to talk about it, whether they wanted to or not. And once they'd talked about it, she would help them learn coping techniques.

For now, Jacey decided to bring her two patients together for group therapy, especially as she'd had no particular luck with them individually. It was a very small group—just the two of them—but their experiences and their reactions were so similar, perhaps in a directed group, they could help each other as much as they seemed to be doing one on one through their everyday interactions.

The problem was, they weren't buying it.

"No," said Rainie.

"Not a chance," said House.

But Jacey Liu was adamant.

"We're doing this now. It's time," she said firmly. "You can't keep putting it off."

The first session began awkwardly, with resistance from both of her patients.

"Do you have any idea how much I hate this crap?" said House, belligerently. "Do you really think that dredging up all of this…" He gestured, as if the past were laid out in front of him on the coffee table. "…is going to do anything except upset us?"

Jacey let him vent, and then went ahead anyway.

"I know it's uncomfortable, and I know it's painful," she said. "But I also know it works, whether you want to believe it or not, so we're going ahead."

She started slowly, asking them to talk about the first moments when they realized something was very wrong, when Thompson's evil first entered their lives.

"I'm not doing this," said a petulant House, turning his body away from her so that it nearly faced Rainie on the other side of him on the sofa.

Jacey wondered if House's refusal would affect Rainie's willingness to talk.

Her other patient sat quietly, thinking it through.

"I am," said Rainie, finally. "I don't want to—I'm literally terrified—but if I can't explore it here, with two people I trust, I may never be able to."

House looked at her.

"Are you sure?" he asked, genuinely baffled. "Why would you want to put yourself through this? You know we're never going to get over it, never going to recover from it."

She waited a moment before responding.

"Maybe not," she said. "But we're thinking about it anyway, all the time. We're having flashbacks and nightmares. We're afraid to go outside. We're terrified when we hear loud noises or if someone moves too quickly. If it's going to affect the rest of my life, then at least I'd like to have as much control over it as I can. If I choose to talk about it here, with you, then I'm controlling it. And I really need to have some kind of control."

House stared at her for a very long time. Then he gave a quick nod in that abrupt way he had of acknowledging when someone else's argument had convinced him.

"Fair enough," he said.

Good, thought Jacey.

Taking a deep breath and looking down toward the floor, Rainie began.

"It started a couple of weeks after I realized what was actually going on."

Jacey wasn't sure what she meant. "Could you explain?" she asked.

"Yes, sorry. I'd been doing research on Greg's case for about a month when I suddenly figured out…" She exhaled slowly and tried again, more detached this time. "The man I was researching, Greg House, was supposed to have gone insane and killed one of his employees."

She looked at House and their eyes met.

"But the facts didn't add up. It just didn't make sense. One night, I had an epiphany. I realized he couldn't possibly have gone insane. He had to have been abused. Some kind of horrific abuse had brought him to that moment when Dr. Cameron was killed."

Jacey glanced over at House, who was looking intently at Rainie with a startled expression on his face.

Rainie went on.

"It was apparent to me that whoever was abusing him must also be holding something over his head. Otherwise why would he have remained silent about it, even through Dr. Cameron's murder and his own imprisonment? If I was right—and I was sure I was—if he was the victim of that kind of abuse and being threatened in that way, I knew he couldn't have killed Dr. Cameron either."

House felt his stomach drop.

"How did you know? How did you figure it out?" he asked, his raspy voice a whisper. How could this woman—who hadn't even known him then—see what people who had worked with him for years couldn't see?

She swallowed before answering.

"I just knew," she said, shrugging her shoulders, recalling the epiphany she'd had that night in the newsroom. "Nothing else fit the facts. It had to be abuse."

As they sat quietly for a moment, she looked at him compassionately, then picked up where she left off, in the same detached tone of voice.

"After I figured it out, I felt compelled to find out who was abusing him, and why. Who could hate him enough to murder someone else and allow him to be imprisoned for the crime? I delved into his case files, looking for an answer. By then, I knew he'd been rude to patients, offended other physicians, and over the years had alienated a lot of people. I also know he was in constant pain and was considered a drug addict by some.

She kept her eyes away from House, talking about him as if he were a case file and not sitting next to her on the couch.

"But I also knew from talking to a lot of his patients that he would do anything, even if it bordered on the illegal, to save them. A man like that couldn't have intentionally killed anyone else."

She spoke unemotionally, as if reciting from memory.

"Once I realized he had to be innocent, I had to find out what had happened—who could have done such a terrible thing to this man? It became a puzzle I just had to solve. I knew the person I was looking for not only had a grudge, but also had to be seriously unhinged, and almost definitely wealthy and powerful."

The elephant sitting on House's chest was particularly heavy today; he couldn't breathe. Rainie's dispassionate description of how she solved the mystery of his case engulfed him. While he was wrestling with his feelings, she continued.

"I reviewed every case, and I couldn't find anyone who fit my criteria. Finally, it dawned on me. What if it wasn't one of his former patients?"

Jacey heard a sharp intake of breath from House. She avoided looking at him, but she knew Rainie had his complete attention.

"So I started looking through cases that had been referred to him, ones he had refused to take, thinking his refusal might be the cause for the grudge. Eventually, I came across the file for Robert Thompson's daughter."

Her voice grew quieter as her story became more personal.

"The next day, I called Thompson, and told him I was working on a story about the House case. Something in his reaction… made me think he might be the one. I-I don't think I gave anything away, don't think I said anything about trying to exonerate Greg, but it didn't matter. The man was insane.

"A few days later, as I left the front of the _Times_ building, a man came up to me on the sidewalk. He knew who I was. On 43rd Street, anything can happen and no one will notice, and no one did. In a very conversational tone, he said that if I wanted my daughter... to stay alive… _oh, God_...!" A crack in the armor. "…I'd better come with him and do what he told me to do… and drop my investigation of the House case."

She paused, realizing she was headed into dangerous territory.

"He and a couple of others took me to a warehouse in Jersey…"

Jacey heard another gasp from House.

"They explained to me exactly what they were going to do. That if I wanted… Jeff and …Evie… to be safe, I would have to agree to… their terms… They showed me the contract."

A long pause.

"I signed it."

It was getting harder and harder for Rainie to talk, her words jutting out around short breaths.

"That first day…" She drifted off into memory, the present fading away as the past took over.

"Go on," said Jacey, softly. "What happened that first day?"

Rainie glanced up, then looked away again. She took a few deep breaths, trying to settle herself down before continuing.

"…All of a sudden… one of the men hit me hard in the face. I landed on the cement floor. They… they yanked me up, and dragged me toward a table…"

Suddenly, Jacey heard House's voice, speaking urgently in a tone she hadn't heard before.

"No, don't," he said tersely to Jacey. "_Don't _make her tell this part."

Jacey searched his face. He obviously knew what came next. Either he was trying to protect Rainie from her painful memories, or himself from having to be reminded of his own.

"Rainie?" she said. "Do you want to stop now?"

Rainie said nothing, just continued to stare. Finally, she shook her head.

"No. I'll go on."

She paused again, swallowing and blinking a few times before she spoke.

"…The table… had rings drilled into it… it seems so ludicrous to say it… as if it were a cheesy horror film… they… they chained me to it, face up. I remember one of them saying, 'Smile for the camera,' forcing my head toward a… _oh, fucking Jesus!_" She closed her eyes and choked back a sob. After a long pause, she continued, her voice growing quieter until it faded away. "…a camera on the wall… they lifted my skirt... and then one by one they… raped me… all three of them… raped me…"

It was too much. Her chest began heaving with sobs, as she dropped her face into her lap.

Jacey looked up at House. His eyes were bottomless blue wounds, looking just as they'd looked the day he'd cried with Rainie all those weeks ago in the hospital. His breathing was short, as if he couldn't quite catch his breath.

_She knew_, he thought, devastated. _She figured out what happened to me. She knew. She had to have known that solving my puzzle was dangerous… could lead her into the same lair… and still she went forward with it. It cost her everything to try to help me… And still she did it…_

Rainie couldn't go on, and, after looking at House, Jacey decided to let his story wait for another session.

"You're safe now, Rainie. Here, with us, you're safe," was all she said.


	55. Chapter 55: Half-Awake in the Night

Half-Awake in the Middle of the Night…

**A**fter two years, Wilson had gotten used to the screaming. Usually, it started sometime after midnight and before five in the morning. Of course, now it came in two varieties: the original Greg House version and the new, improved Rainie Adler version.

The rare nights when no screaming intruded, Wilson found himself half-waking in the middle of the night, out of habit. On one of those nights, Wilson found himself fully awake, idly thinking.

He wondered if House's decision to be Rainie's lead physician had been the right one. He wondered whether House's attentions were actually helping Rainie through the healing process. And he wondered whether his friend was helping his own recovery or hurting it.

Looking at it from his recent, more removed, vantage point, he had to admit that whatever House was doing seemed to be working, probably because House had been able to give Rainie something that no one could give him: the benefit of experience.

Wilson thought back two years. Starved, nearly out of his mind with terror, physically decimated, and ultimately semi-catatonic, House had been a shell of a person for nearly a year. Even as he started to improve, a year ago, it was a slow, tortuous struggle toward any kind of normal life, and it had really only been in the last three or four months, since he'd put himself in charge of Rainie's care, that he had returned to a semblance of his former self.

The first time Wilson saw Rainie Adler after she'd been released from prison was a couple of days after she was admitted to PPTH. He tried to remember what she was like then, but found, perhaps because she was a stranger, that his memories of her weren't clear. She was frighteningly thin, he recalled, and—like House—had fresh bruises marking her skin. Her eyes. He remembered her eyes, and yes, he had to admit, they reminded him of House's—haunted and dead.

Of course House's situation was a little different. He'd been stuck in the prison hospital for an extended period, and then, when he really couldn't handle it, been forced to go through the trials, which precipitated the catatonia. And there was his leg. House had had a preexisting condition before his trauma began, which probably extended his recuperation.

On the other hand, Rainie, unlike House, had suffered a much more severe emotional toll, from the pregnancies, the abortions, and from losing both her husband and her child.

So maybe they balanced out.

Now, here it was, only a few months later, and she had gone through all her legal trials and had handled them fairly well. Not only that, but Wilson had seen her laugh on numerous occasions. House hadn't really begun to laugh again until… well, until after Rainie came along.

Weighing the evidence, he had his answer. Whatever House was doing helped her, had made her recovery go quicker and easier. House, the curmudgeon, the man who hated people, somehow made Rainie Adler's life better.

And his own, in the process.

**T**wice a week, House, Rainie and Jacey met in the living room for their group therapy sessions. Each session delved a little further into what had happened to them, with House and Rainie finding themselves both stunned and reassured to discover how similar their experiences had been.

The sessions were intense and wrenching, often ending with one or both of them in tears, but always with Jacey's assurance that they were safe, and that it would get better—really, it would—with time.

Between sessions, they never discussed it, even though both were exhausted and strained, on edge from all the emotional rawness.

"Your turn," said Jacey Liu, looking at House, who was staring back at her belligerently.

"Don't have to talk about it. It was in the papers," he said, pursing his lips tightly, as if by pressing his mouth shut he could keep the feelings from spilling out.

"How you felt about it wasn't in the papers," said Jacey, equally determined. "Tell me how you felt."

"It should be obvious how I felt," he said, and then said nothing more.

Jacey waited a moment to see if he would say anything else. He wouldn't. She tried a different approach.

"Have you given any thought to how other people felt—the people you work with? They saw you come into work injured, grow more withdrawn, less like yourself. And then Dr. Cameron was murdered and they were told you had done it, killed her in a particularly brutal manner. How do you think they felt?"

When Jacey said Cameron's name, House winced involuntarily. Out of the corner of her eye, Jacey saw Rainie watching House attentively. He waited a moment before speaking.

"Doesn't matter how they felt," he said.

"Why not?" asked Jacey, pushing him to respond.

"Because the outcome is the same."

"What do you mean?"

"No matter how they felt, I would still have done what I did."

"Why?"

House said nothing. Rainie laid her hand on his right arm. He flinched and pulled away from her touch.

"Why, Greg?" asked Jacey. "Why would you still have done what you did?"

Still no answer.

"Listen to me, Greg. This is important. Why did this matter so much to you? Why were you willing to subject yourself to constant torture, believing it would last the rest of your life? What mattered so much to you that you were willing to go through that?"

House's breath grew shallow. Rainie saw tears developing in his eyes. He blinked them back.

And still no response.

"Come on, Greg. If it mattered enough to you to go through this nightmare for it, how can you be afraid of saying it aloud? Something that important should be spoken."

House drew in a deep breath and exhaled it slowly as he struggled with himself.

"First, do no harm," he said quietly.

For a while, it seemed that would be all he would say. Then, after a moment, very softly, Rainie spoke up.

"Choix cornélien," she said. "An impossible choice. No way to win... and no way to do no harm."

Abruptly, House turned his head and gazed at her, their eyes meeting for a long moment. Then he nodded in agreement.

"No good outcome," he muttered. "The only choice I had was to do as little harm as I could. Either I submitted to the contract, or they died, painfully. It was that simple. I was less important than seven other people. I did the math, and I signed the contract."

His head dropped. When he spoke again, his voice was bitter and angry.

"Of course, it didn't matter that I did everything they asked. They killed Cameron anyway. It didn't matter. None of it mattered."

"Certainly it mattered, Greg. Because of you, six people are walking this earth who wouldn't have been alive. It's not your fault that the seventh isn't."

He looked unconvinced.

"You were there when it happened. How did it start?"

House shook his head.

"No. Not a chance."

"Why not?"

House hesitated.

"Because…" He spit the words out: "No one else should have to hear about it—go through it vicariously like that. It was bad enough that I went through it."

Jacey let him sit a moment before pressing onward, changing tack.

"Tell me about Wilson."

House looked up suddenly, startled and a little apprehensive.

"What about him?"

"Tell me what happened with Wilson. He's your best friend. His name is at the top of Thompson's list. And yet the two of you had a very public argument and you stopped speaking. Why?"

House stared at her stonily.

"You know why."

"Tell me anyway. Why did you push him away?"

House snorted and turned his head away, determined not to answer.

As she sat waiting, Jacey Liu saw Rainie looking at her rather intently, as if she were trying to send a message by mental telepathy. After a moment Jacey leaned back in her chair and, opening Rainie's case file, began flipping through the pages casually. Ah. There it was.

"Rainie?"

House, caught up in his own thoughts, for once hadn't noticed what was going on around him and appeared relieved that the spotlight had left him.

"Yes?"

"Tell me what happened with Evan."

A hint of a smile crossed Rainie's face as she made fleeting eye contact with Jacey. _Good good good. You got it._

"I picked a fight with him."

House looked up, his eyes wary.

"Why?"

"To save his life."

Now she had House's attention.

"Explain, please. How could picking a fight save someone's life?"

Rainie's eyes flickered ever so slightly in House's direction before she answered.

"Because he was getting too close. If he figured out what was happening to me, they were going to kill him. The only way to save him was to make him go away."

Now she stared pointedly at House, forcing him to look at her. He found himself riveted by her eyes on his.

"Isn't that how it was, Greg? Isn't that what you did to Wilson? You made him so angry with you that he'd leave you alone? Made him _hate_ you… so you could save him?"

House looked stunned.

"It's true, so please don't deny it," she continued in a low voice. "I know exactly what happened. I figured it out." Her voice grew quieter as she drifted off into her own memories. "Later on… when things, well, started to get bad, I remembered what you did to Wilson… so I did the same thing to Evan when my time came."

_When my time came._ The phrase began to run laps in his head. When her time came, when the pain and fear were building to a shattering crescendo and she realized just how dangerous these people were and just what her future held, she remembered what he'd done to Wilson, and she did the same to Evan.

The toughest thing, the most painful thing he ever did—more painful than the torture, the rapes, the pain, the dread, the hopelessness—was to pick that fight with Wilson. What he really wanted to do was tell Wilson, tell someone, tell _anyone_, what was happening. He wanted to tell Wilson how scared he was, how terrified. He wanted to break down and reach out for his friend's comfort, sympathy… but he couldn't. He didn't dare. Not if he wanted that friend to stay alive.

Instead, he chose to spend that endless future completely alone by pushing his best friend away… to keep him safe, so no one could harm him. And the constantly surprising Rainie Adler figured it out. Then she went into her own level of hell with her eyes wide open, and chose to do the same thing to her best friend _when her time came_.

"How could you?" he said under his breath, not quite aware that he'd said it aloud.

She shrugged.

"Choix cornélien. An impossible choice. Destroy the friendship or they would destroy it for me. I did it for the same reason you did. It was the only way I could save him. I loved him enough to allow him to hate me if it saved his life."

House lowered his head, his eyes apparently searching the carpet for something.

"Greg, I knew what you'd done, and why. But I also knew something you didn't know. I knew that, despite everything—despite the changes in you, despite the way you broke off your friendship with him, despite Cameron's murder and seeing you sent to prison—Wilson still cared about you, still believed in you. All I could hope for was that Evan would… might…"

Her voice broke. She tried again.

"…that Evan might feel the same about me. That he might still love me the way Wilson still believed in you…"

Suddenly, the dam broke.

Half an hour and half a box of Kleenex later, House finally stopped crying.

He wasn't surprised to find himself exhausted.

What he didn't expect was to find that the elephant—the one that had been sitting on his chest for six years—had shifted its position ever so slightly… just enough to release some of the pressure it exerted on his heart.


	56. Chapter 56: Loss

Loss…

"**T**oday I want to take things in a different direction," said Jacey Liu, who had been building up to this moment for a couple of sessions, unbeknownst to her patients. "Instead of having you describe what happened, I want you to focus on the idea of loss—what your experiences have caused you to lose."

The room settled into a tense silence as her two patients retreated into their own minds.

House stared thoughtfully a blank spot on the opposite wall. What exactly had he lost? Certainly he'd lost the use of his once-active body. But he'd faced that loss before, when his leg was injured. Hadn't dealt with it terribly well, but he'd at least been there before. And he'd lost the ability to live without pain, but again, that wasn't unfamiliar. The degree of pain and the location of it had changed, but the basic concept remained the same.

What else? Well, he'd lost time, a lot of it. Years, in fact. Not only the time spent in prison and recuperating, but also the number of years remaining to him. Thompson had stolen time from him, time in which he might have… well, what might he have done with that time? Played the piano and guitar—another loss—manipulated his friends and staff, hung out with Wilson, traveled perhaps, and tried to solve some medical mysteries and save some lives. He'd never thought of it quite this way before, but in his attempt to destroy House, Thompson had also created collateral damage, other than Allison Cameron and Rainie's family, by indirectly killing patients who might be alive if House had been there to diagnose them.

Because he hadn't considered that loss until now, he also hadn't grieved over the unseen and unknown patients. Now that he thought about it, he felt an acute sense of inadequacy. If, somehow, he'd been able to save Thompson's daughter, he might also have saved those others. As he felt the inevitable emotional reaction to the losses, he made a conscious decision to force that notion out of his mind.

Back to loss. Perhaps the biggest one was the loss of himself. As miserable as he'd been before—and certainly everyone around him kept telling him he was miserable—he at least knew who he was. He knew what to expect from the universe—which was not much—and he had a pretty good idea how he'd react to that intractable universe. He would fight it, rage at it, toy with it, bargain with it.

Now, what would he do? He was startled to realize that he seemed much more likely to simply accept that the universe was his enemy and could easily destroy him. He no longer fought back; he merely accepted that he had little or no control.

His sense of self was shaken in other ways, too, because he'd also lost his privacy. And with that loss came unexpected changes.

Because everyone knew what he'd suffered, he found himself in the perplexing position of having people admire him, not just for his medical skills but for his strength of character, for what he was willing to do to protect the people he cared about. This threw his lack of self-worth and all his manipulative games into a cocked hat. He was uncomfortable with the idea that people now perceived him as somehow admirable. And their reactions to him forced him to change how he behaved, and _that_, he was startled to note, made some of that same universe a little less threatening.

All in all, it was very confusing.

He said none of this. Instead, he sat on the couch, wrapped up in his own thoughts until Jacey Liu slowly began to pry it all out of him. Her insistent questions eventually compelled him to own up to what Thompson had cost him and how his experiences had changed him—and he was even willing to admit that a few of those changes had not necessarily been for the worse.

For once, the act of revealing himself before Jacey Liu and Rainie turned out not to be an exhausting emotional experience. He was surprised to discover that some of his losses now left him unencumbered by old emotional baggage and that he felt vaguely… well, vaguely what? It certainly wasn't happiness, but it contained something positive. Relieved, perhaps, or maybe just a little lighter in his spirit. And that, in itself, was odd.

Rainie was having a much different experience. She could barely bring herself to consider her losses, instead listening as Jacey teased sentences and feelings out of Greg.

When it was her turn, she was dreading it.

"Rainie?"

She didn't want to, really didn't want to.

"Come on, Rainie. Talk to us."

"No. I can't do this."

She looked away from the other two.

Well, this was a switch, thought House. Usually, she was the one who confronted the issues head on, forcing him to open up.

He looked at Jacey, who seemed to be waiting for something to happen. Maybe she was waiting for him to do something.

After a long silence, he decided to pick up the gauntlet.

"It's hard, isn't it?" he asked. "Like chasing a phantom. Examining what isn't here anymore—dealing with what's gone."

She exhaled, and slowly nodded.

He'd gotten pretty good at this emotional honesty thing, so he decided to go for it.

"It's not just the loss of physical health and your career. It's the loss of the life you led, and especially the loss of your husband and little girl."

She tried to stay in control, to tamp down the feelings of desolation and anguish that simmered so very close to the surface.

For the first time, she allowed herself to remember. Jeff had been a gentle man, tall and slim with sparkly blue eyes and blond, curly, unruly hair. In some ways, he'd been her buffer against the aggressive, fast-paced life of the city and the often cutthroat world of big-city journalism. Still imbued with a Southern charisma bred from his childhood in Savannah, he had a slow laugh and an affectionate nature. It had torn her to shreds to let people think he might have abused her.

Whenever they were apart, which was often because of his job and hers, they talked daily, sharing little jokes and stories about the adventures of the day. She missed his voice, which she realized with despair she could no longer quite remember, and the feel of his arms around her, the clean, fresh scent of him and sound of his laugh. He was dead, gone forever because she just had to solve the mystery of Greg House. If not for her stubborn curiosity, that dear man would still be alive, holding her close.

It was her fault he was dead, her fault he had suffered, her fault he was gone.

Her tears began slowly as she hesitantly, painfully, told Greg about Jeff, who he was and why she'd loved him so much. And mostly, how desperately she missed him, and how guilty she felt.

And now… what?

How could she have she fallen in love with that same Greg House whose mystery had led to Jeff's death? But somehow she _had _fallen in love with him, even though the two men couldn't have been more different. In some weird manner, the death of Jeff—a death that had happened indirectly because of Greg—had actually brought her to Greg.

None of that changed the fact that she was finally allowing herself to miss Jeff, and miss him dreadfully. Loving Jeff Adler had been easy because he was easy and relaxed. Loving Greg House was never going to be easy. And probably wouldn't lead to anything anyway. It shouldn't lead to anything. It couldn't lead to anything.

Without saying any of this aloud, the emotions bubbled up in her like water in a fountain, turning the gentle trickle of tears into wracking sobs that left her gasping for air.

House hadn't seen her like this since the day he'd had to tell her about Evie, and he didn't know what to do. So he simply handed her a tissue, and watched as she blew her nose. Then he handed her another.

Despite her intensely felt emotions, she was still skirting the greatest loss, the loss of her daughter. She knew it, Jacey knew it and House knew it. Other than her reaction when House had broken the news, she had not mourned, choosing instead to pretend to herself that Evie had never existed. If Rainie had never given birth to a little girl, she couldn't be hurt by the loss of her daughter.

But it was apparent that Jacey Liu was going to force her into acknowledging the reality of that loss, too, and for a moment Rainie hated her for it.

"Tell us about your little girl, Rainie," asked Jacey, slowly and gently. "Let's start with what she looked like."

_Do I have to do this? Can't I just go on pretending?_

For years, Rainie had followed the terms of the contract in order to save Evie, sacrificing herself so her daughter could have a good life. And now that life was gone. It was all for nothing. The weight on Rainie's chest made it hard to breathe.

_It hurts too much. I just can't do this. I can't…_

But she could and, somehow, she did.

Through her tears she described a dark-haired, blue-eyed toddler, who had her father's charm and laugh, occasionally disrupted by her mother's stubbornness and quick temper.

House, who had a well-camouflaged affinity for children, had no trouble picturing little Evie Adler. If she'd been anything like her mother, she was a pretty, enchanting child with quick intelligence and humor lurking behind her eyes.

Although he would never admit it, House really liked being around children, enjoyed talking to them—much more than with most grownups, if truth be told—and found observing their uninhibited way of interacting with the world immensely rewarding.

Even if he had never let anyone know this about himself, the cases that had most inspired him were the ones involving children, and the ones that spurred him to true rage were the ones involving abused children. As Rainie described her daughter, he felt himself getting emotionally involved with this child he had never seen… and never would.

Evie was nearly two the last time Rainie had seen her. Evan Schuster had tried to get custody, but a single gay parent was a little too much for the local courts in Hoboken, so Rainie Adler's little girl had been sent to the foster home where she would eventually die.

"The last time…" Rainie choked up. "Oh, God…! …The last time I saw my baby was the day I was sentenced. She was crying and reaching out for me, calling out… _Mama! Mama!_... I could barely stand it… I still can't stand it… All I wanted was to hold her in my arms one more time… But they wouldn't let me… I kept watching her face as they took me away… She was still crying, calling out, crying _Mama! Mama! … Mama! Mama! ..._"

Her voice trailed away as the emotions took over. She began to shudder violently, howling with pain as she finally began to come to terms with her loss.

House, deeply moved and close to tears himself, reached out toward her. Slowly, she shook her head and pulled away. He nodded to let her know he understood. This was too personal and private to be shared. She had to go through this pain alone.

Loss.

For one, it had the potential to be freeing.

For the other, it was an unbearable amputation from the past.

_Page 4 of 4_


	57. Chapter 57: Tremendous Sense of Guilt

A Tremendous Sense of Guilt…

**F**or their first couple of sessions, James Wilson and Evan Schuster talked in generalities about how difficult it was to care about people as badly abused as House and Rainie.

The third session started differently, with Jacey Liu prodding them to start at the beginning. When did they first notice something was wrong? What did they think about it? How did they feel?

"I saw—I noticed—but I just couldn't see it," started Wilson. "It was so much simpler to… believe his lies about what happened."

He looked down, fidgeting in his chair.

"I'm a doctor, and I've seen a lot, but I… I couldn't begin to imagine… Why couldn't I see it? Why couldn't I at least see that something was wrong—he was hurt, he was scared. Why did I blame him?"

Agreeing, Evan picked up on the subtext.

"For me, I've felt an almost all-consuming sense of guilt."

He looked over at Wilson, who caught his eye and nodded slightly.

"Although she kept the specifics to herself, I knew the story Rainie was working on. She'd even shared a few of the details. How could I miss it? What kind of journalist do I think I am that I refused to see what was happening?"

His voice got louder as he grew more agitated.

"She got thinner… and paler… and all those bruises. She came in one day with her wrist taped. The pain was so bad she couldn't type. A couple of weeks later, it was her knee. And then a broken finger. Cuts on her face. A black eye. And then another. I knew Jeff—I'd known him for years. There was no way that man was going to hurt her. He adored her. He was the gentlest, most tender man who ever lived. And yet, what else could I believe? Why didn't I look deeper? Why did I believe it?"

Jacey interrupted.

"Did she tell you Jeff was abusing her?"

Evan let out a small, annoyed snort.

"That's just it. She didn't. She never did. Everyone in the newsroom was talking about it, and I just let myself go along for the ride. Couldn't come up with another solution—the truth about what actually happened is so… unbelievable. As it got worse, I kept prodding her until… well, until she picked that fight."

For Wilson, listening to Evan was something of a revelation. For six years, he'd been in his own, tagalong version of House's hell. He understood innately Evan's unwillingness to look beneath the surface of what was happening to try to dig at the truth… and felt guilty that he understood it so well. In his case, it was so much… easier… to believe that House was just being even more of a jerk than usual, to get annoyed with him, to lecture him, to dismiss him.

As the revelations came out—first about Cameron's death and the trials and House's imprisonment, and later about Thompson and the contract and what had really happened—Wilson was in a daze of anguish and guilt.

He had always insisted that House couldn't have killed Cameron, and yet there was House, headed off to a lifetime in prison for the crime. His brain argued that House had changed so much in the past year that for all Wilson knew, he just might have snapped and killed her. But his heart knew something different.

Then later, once House was released and Wilson saw the evidence of what had happened, he was overcome with grief. He was forced to come to terms with the fact that while he was busy badgering his friend to pull himself together, House was already undergoing a terrifying, unpredictable series of physical and psychological torments… and worst of all, that House had allowed it to happen… intentionally… to save seven lives, his own included.

That first moment when he saw House again, he quite literally didn't recognize him. He thought it was a mistake, that the man they'd brought before him was some old man, a lifer dying of cancer, perhaps. The cowering, battered, emaciated figure sitting hunched and shuddering across the room bore no resemblance to the proud, vigorous man he'd known.

Over the next few months, Wilson put himself on autopilot, refusing to think too much about what had happened and focusing only on what needed to be done right now, today… right now, this minute.

He especially refused to think about how awful he felt inside, and not just at seeing a fellow human being—his best friend, yet—suffering as House was. On those rare occasions he looked inside, all he could see in himself was someone who had added to the torment of his best friend, a man who was already living a nightmarish reality. While House had been offering himself as a sacrifice for James, James was behaving like the worst possible friend imaginable.

Simply put, Wilson couldn't stand himself.

Two years later, he still couldn't stand himself.

"James?"

He heard Jacey's voice, which sounded far away.

"James?"

It sounded clearer now.

"Yes," he replied hesitantly.

He saw Jacey smiling at him.

"You went away for a while. Think you can rejoin us?"

Wilson blinked his eyes in an attempt to pull himself back into the present.

"Yes, Jacey. Sorry. Wandered off for a minute."

By the fourth session, the two began to explore the moments when House and Rainie broke off their friendships with Wilson and Evan.

Soon, they talked specifically about what they went through after the murders of Allison Cameron and Jeff Adler and during the trials and the murder convictions of their best friends.

Eventually, they got to the most momentous issue of them all—what it felt like to know that someone they loved had been willing to make this kind of sacrifice for them… and what it was like now to constantly confront the physical evidence of that sacrifice.

Between sessions, the two continued the conversation over lunch, over dinner and sometimes even at the duplex, after House and Rainie had gone to sleep.

By listening to Wilson and by asking him questions, Evan finally understood some of his own fears, and slowly began to develop an assurance within himself that perhaps—perhaps—he might be able to find a way to help Rainie.

For his part, Wilson found that he was feeling an unexpected sense of relief that he no longer had to carry this emotional burden alone, that—finally—someone really understood how he felt.

**I**t was gradual, but eventually, over time, House and Rainie began to notice a difference. The medications and the therapy seemed to be working; they felt less anxious and their nightmares and flashbacks began to ease off.

Even more significant was that fact that the fog that had wrapped itself around their hearts and minds was slowly lifting.

**H**ouse heard the whap-whap of a wooden spoon beating batter in a large mixing bowl, and speculated that something delicious would be headed his way before too long, possibly some of Linda's icing-dripped cupcakes.

He was getting restless, which he recognized as a good sign. Time to get serious about a start date for returning to work. Not that being there physically made much difference. Since he'd gotten home from the hospital, he'd already solved a handful of cases, so it didn't really matter where he was. But he needed to get out, needed to have a reason to get dressed, needed a reason to—could it be true?—interact with other people.

He and Cuddy had discussed it at length. She was all in favor of his working from home on a permanent basis. She was afraid he would overdo things and set his recovery back. (Him? Never!) He argued that he needed to be there to save time, and therefore save lives. Ultimately they compromised on part-time. When he was ready.

He was starting to think he might be ready soon.

**O**n a smoggy afternoon in late summer, Evan faced another flashback. Outside, some construction workers dropped a load of lumber off the back of their truck and onto the street with an ear-splitting crash. The sharp slap of it triggered a shocking reaction from Rainie. Suddenly, she screamed, dropped to the floor and curled herself into a ball. Within seconds she began reacting to something that wasn't there, flinching as if being hit, cringing and begging, her eyes focused on someone standing above her. He gathered from listening to her side of the conversation that she'd somehow broken one of the rules of the contract.

It made his heart constrict to see his strong-willed friend grovel and plead for forgiveness. After about a minute, she began to cry terrified tears.

He approached her cautiously, remembering how House had done it that awful night. Gingerly, he reached out and touched her, not sure what to expect. She drew back slightly, but was so wrapped up in her own mind, she didn't seem to be aware of him.

"It'll be okay, punkin," he said as he slowly slid her arms around her.

Bones. All he could feel was bones—the bones of her back, shoulders and arms. Each bone was well defined. If she was this painfully thin now, what had she been like six months ago? He bit back the emotions that were threatening. _This isn't about me_, he thought. _It's about her._

Eventually, she came back to herself, starting when she saw Evan's face so close to hers. Fortunately, this time there were no agonizing revelations, and no devastating emotional catharsis for either of them. But he'd gotten through it, and he'd been there for her, and she seemed grateful.

It was all he could ask for.

"**C**annot predict now."

House glared at the object in his hand.

"Concentrate and ask again."

Once more.

"Signs point to yes."

That was better. He dropped the Magic Eight Ball down on the soft grass at his feet, lay his head against the padded back of the patio _chaise longue_, and gazed upward at a wispy cloud in the late summer sky.

The backyard wasn't large, but it was outdoors and it was private. One of the first things Wilson did after buying the duplex was to build a ten-foot-high wooden fence around the perimeter of the yard. Some of the neighbors complained that it was an eyesore, but Wilson didn't care. It provided House with the privacy he so dearly needed and deserved.

It took months, but after a while, on warm days, Wilson was able to tease House into leaving the secure confines of the duplex to sun himself on one of the comfortable lawn chairs, or to take a meal in the fresh air. Now it had become House's favorite place. Lately, he had even been able to convince Rainie—who was as reluctant as he had once been—to join him outside.

Behind him, House heard the screen door open. Linda or Rainie? The footsteps were sure and regular. Linda.

She approached cautiously, as she always did, not wanting to alarm him. Even after all this time, he startled far too easily, so Linda McAllister moved slowly as she brought him a glass of sweet iced tea with lemon. Peering around, she was pleased to see that he was awake.

"How was the nap?" she asked.

"Fine."

"Feeling a little better?"

"I guess."

It was always tricky asking how he felt. As his nurse, she had to know so she could be alert to any medical complications or to adjust his meds, if need be. But he was seldom honest about how bad it was, except on those days—far too often—when it was so excruciating he couldn't help himself. Although Rainie was more forthright about her pain, she also withheld the severity of it. Something about that goddamned contract—something about not being allowed to react to pain, for fear of retaliation.

So Linda tread carefully, taking note of subtle changes, constantly trying to read their expressions. Was that wince greater than usual? Did that grunt mean the pain was worse than it had been yesterday? It was a guessing game, one she didn't feel confident she was winning.

Both of her patients were both so private, and she couldn't say that she blamed them. What had happened didn't bear thinking about. Occasionally, when it was quiet, when they were both sleeping, Linda let her thoughts wander to how she might have handled the situation these two had found themselves in. She knew she wouldn't have survived. She would have given in to the despair, killed herself even if meant others would die.

When it was bad, when one or both of them was moaning and crying out in pain, she occasionally felt overwhelmed with compassion for them. She did what she could, but never felt it was enough. Mostly, she never let her compassion verge into pity. No, never pity. They simply wouldn't allow it.

Silently, she sat down on the lounge chair next to him, quietly watching him as he stared at his tea. Sunlight reflected off the granules of sugar as they filtered down through the tea before settling at the bottom of the glass.

Suddenly, House sat upright.

"Phone," he demanded.

Snapped out of her reverie, Linda ran into the kitchen.

When she came back outside she didn't hesitate, but ran right up to him, extending the phone. At times like this, when he was in work mode, she had learned that—for whatever reason—sudden movements didn't bother him as much.

He punched two on the speed dial, then paused a moment before speaking brusquely.

"It's not _e coli_. It's Atypical Hemolytic Uremic Syndrome. Test for Factor H, Factor I, Factor B and MCP. Start plasmapheresis."

He listened. Then he spoke again, sounding annoyed.

"Yes, I'm sure. Degree in nephrology, remember?"

After he put the phone down, he lay back again and closed his eyes. Within a couple of minutes, he was asleep.

Linda quietly picked up his glass and went back inside.


	58. Chapter 58: Getting Out

Getting Out

**A**s summer waned and autumn waxed, the apartment suddenly seemed too small. House and Rainie, both feeling much improved physically, if not emotionally, were getting on each other's nerves.

"Will you move your feet?!" she griped one evening when he had taken over most of the couch.

"It's more comfortable this way," he replied, ignoring the fact that she was squished into one end of the couch.

"Not for me, it isn't."

"Then go sit in the chair."

"I don't want to."

"I got dibs."

"How do you figure that? I got here first."

"It's my couch."

"Oh, so that's how it's going to be? Your place, your couch and I'm just in the way?"

"If that's how you want it."

"Not particularly. You're the one who said I could go where I wanted when I wanted. Well, right now, I want to sit here and not be pinned by your big feet."

Grumbling, he pulled his feet back about two inches.

"Oh, now, that's helpful," she said, sarcastically. "I know I've wasted away to practically nothing, but I'd at least like to be able to sit without being stuffed into a corner by you."

"Do what you like," he said irritably, shoving his feet back toward her, tucking them under her right thigh.

She slapped at his ankles.

"Stop it! You're making me crazy!"

In reality, they were both making each other crazy, and not just because they were cooped up in the apartment. It was one of those times when their mutual attraction had become a bit much. But they weren't going to talk about that.

**T**he next day, House decided to get out for a while, to try driving his car again. He'd woken up exceptionally early, feeling a little better than usual. After a hot shower, he got himself dressed and then spent a frustrating hour trying to figure out where his car keys had disappeared to. He was sure he'd seen them somewhere, but he was damned if he could remember where.

Aha.

Finally, he went next door and rang Wilson's bell. When there was no answer, he leaned on the buzzer.

After about a minute, the door opened, and House saw a tousled and bleary Wilson peering out.

"House?"

"None other."

"What's up? Is anything wrong?"

"Where are my car keys?"

Wilson looked at him, uncomprehending.

"You woke me up at six in the morning to ask me where your car keys are?"

"Obviously."

Somehow, Wilson was strangely comforted by this return of the crotchety, unreasonable House he'd always known.

"Just a minute," he said, rolling his eyes. "Let me get a robe, and I'll help you find them."

He shut the door, returning shortly, wearing a striped robe. He'd brushed his hair.

"That was _two_ minutes," said House petulantly. "And you didn't say anything about brushing your hair."

The absurdity of the whole thing struck Wilson funny. He started to laugh.

"What? I want my keys."

"So we're okay now?"

For a moment, House considered pretending he didn't know what Wilson was referring to, but decided it was more trouble than it was worth. If this kind of lunacy was what it took to get Wilson to stop being an idiot, then so be it.

"Yeah, we're fine. Unless you can't find those keys. Then I'm going to pluck out your eyebrow hairs one by one."

Now, all of a sudden, Wilson had his friend back. The one from _before_. His exasperating, demanding, brilliant, inscrutable friend.

The keys, it turned out, were in the drawer of House's bedside table, and House didn't have to pluck out Wilson's eyebrows.

Much later in the day, it occurred to Wilson that he'd seen House rummage through that very drawer only a few days earlier. So either House had genuinely forgotten the keys were there, or… maybe… he'd set Wilson up. Perhaps this was just House's way of saying, enough of this nonsense, Wilson. Come on back into my life. I miss you.

He chose to believe it was the latter, and at that moment he felt the knot that had twisted his stomach for two years slowly begin to unwind as his guilt melted just slightly.

That evening, Rainie announced that she going to her room to read, leaving House and Wilson to order in pizza, drink a couple of beers and watch _Big Love_.

**A** few days after that, when House felt comfortable enough behind the wheel, he asked Rainie if she'd like to go for a drive.

She paused.

"Well?"

"I'd give almost anything to get out of here for a while," she admitted. "Let me get dressed. Give me… oh, about 30 minutes, okay?"

He liked this plan. They didn't have to actually go anywhere in particular. In fact, the idea of leaving the car and facing strangers didn't appeal to either one of them. But getting out of the apartment and looking at the fall colors sounded better than almost anything.

Twenty-five minutes later, with Linda's help, she was ready, dressed in a soft, flowing forest green skirt and artist's blouse, with a cream-colored cardigan around her shoulders and a warm leaf-patterned scarf wrapped casually around her neck. She'd asked Linda's help to put on some foundation, blush and powder, because she still hadn't looked at herself in a mirror… and after her experiences in court wasn't likely to. It was easier to remember herself the way she used to be if she wasn't confronted by the way she looked now.

House noted that it didn't take much to please her; the promise of a ride in the car had brought a sparkle to her eye and a natural blush to her cheeks, which showed under the makeup.

Linda wasn't so sure about this. She tried to inveigle herself along, but neither House nor Rainie seemed inclined to include her. It had become patently obvious from the first few days that her two patients shared a special bond, and Linda McAllister was beginning to wonder if a romance was blooming under her nose.

Not that she objected. When she first began working with House, she'd have been happy if he had made eye contact or avoided that dramatic flinching when she helped him bathe. Now, she watched amazed when Rainie got House to laugh. With her, he was comfortable, relaxed. For whatever reason, he didn't need his defenses with her, and even when he got cranky, he had an ease in her presence that simply wasn't there with anyone else—not even with his mother or with Wilson.

A cool breeze was blowing as they ventured outside.

House, now several weeks into recovery from surgery on his left hand, was back to using the walker. Rainie, recovering from surgery on her left leg, was getting quite good on her crutches, but on bad days still used a walker.

It was only a few paces to the car, which was parked in the driveway to the right of the front door. It took a little maneuvering, but they got themselves into the car, and tossed the crutches and walker into the back seat.

After fumbling with her seatbelt for at least a minute, she gave up and asked him for help. Turning in the driver's seat, he reached over and tried to fasten the buckle, but it wouldn't latch.

Finally, she grasped the problem.

"Upside down," she said. "Or backwards. Definitely twisted."

Without thinking, she reached down to turn the belt around, and her hand landed on his, startling both of them.

He withdrew his hand abruptly and stared at it for a moment before trying again. This time, the seatbelt latched. She settled back in her seat, aware that her heart was beating a little too fast. When she glanced at House, she saw that his breath was quick and shallow. How infinitely stupid, she thought, to have such an extreme reaction to the commonplace act of bumping into each other. You'd think we were in junior high.

"Let's get this show on the road, as it were," she said, as casually as she could.

"Vroom. Vroom," he said, gripping the steering wheel and staring straight ahead.

"Works better if you actually turn on the car," she counseled. "At least that's what I've been told."

He laughed and turned the key in the ignition.

As they backed out of the drive, House noticed that Rainie's eyes were bright with excitement. To be honest, he wasn't sure if it was from the idea of going on a trip or from their accidental touch. He decided, for his own sanity, it was the trip.

A few days earlier, he had tossed a bunch of CDs into the glove compartment, and now he asked Rainie to pick something suitable for a road trip. She dug through the bizarrely eclectic collection, finally settling on a Riders in the Sky CD of cowboy music. House found himself amused by her choice.

_I'm back in the saddle again. Out where a friend is a friend._

He turned left onto Rolling Meadows Road, following it as it transformed into Littlebrook Road, then into Tyson Lane. A right onto Poe Road, and then a left onto the Lincoln Highway toward Edison.

Fairly soon, he realized that he hadn't chosen the best route. Too much traffic. So he eased off again at Raymond Road and just started driving aimlessly. The point of this adventure wasn't to get someplace, he reminded himself, but to enjoy getting out of the house.

Rainie sat quietly looking out the window, trying to breathe normally and willing her heartbeat to return to its regular rhythm. Once she was sure it was again under control, she turned her face to look out the front of the car.

For more than an hour, they wandered through residential and business districts at random. Houses and trees and businesses drifted by their windows, occasionally eliciting a comment from one of them.

Part of House's brain, a small part, was attentive to driving the car. Another part was watching the scenery, enjoying both the foliage and the chance to pretend—just for a while—that life was normal again. Yet a third part was listening to the music. And a fourth was acutely aware of how he and Rainie were reacting. Every so often the third and fourth parts collided.

_I'm no good without you anyhow. Have I told you lately that I love you? My darling, I'm telling you now._

As the lyrics registered, he saw a pink flush drift up Rainie's neck and over her face. She turned her face again to stare out the passenger side window.

He could choose to ignore it, or he could say something. True to form, or maybe because it seemed too dangerous to do otherwise, he ignored it.

"Are you any good at reading a map?" he asked instead.

She paused before responding.

"I guess. Why? Are we lost?"

"No, not really. It's just that I don't know where we are or how to get back from here. Other than that, we're not lost."

She snickered. "Well, then, I guess the next question is, do we have a map?"

"Yep. That's a good one all right."

"Well, do we?"

"Not sure. Seems to me I had one. Might be in the glove compartment or the side door."

She searched around, and he saw the flush slowly dissipate.

"Found it. Side door," she said.

"Okay. We're coming up on the intersection of Braun and Becker, and we seem to be in New Brunswick. I think we just crossed the Raritan River."

She examined the map closely.

"Got it," she said. "What do you want to do, now that I know where we are? Do you want to head back?"

"Yeah, maybe," he said. "I'm getting hungry. Or maybe we can find a drive-through, if you're up for it."

Now that he mentioned it, she was getting hungry, too. Certainly, neither of them wanted to risk a restaurant, but maybe they could sneak through a drive-through without too much trouble.

"I'm not sure what direction we're going, but Braun's a short street. Go to the end. If it's Valentine, turn right. If it's Harper, turn left."

It was Valentine. They turned right.

"Turn right again on South Third, and keep going till you get to Raritan."

At Raritan, they turned left and re-crossed the river, back toward Princeton. When they got to George Street, House saw a Burger King a block or so down on the left. He headed toward it.

"Sure you're ready for this?" he asked, not at all confident that he was.

"I think so." She sounded braver than she felt. "What's the worst that could happen? The villagers could come after us with torches and pitchforks."

He smiled unsteadily. That wasn't actually very funny, given how people had reacted to him in public.

After deciding what they wanted, they pulled slowly into the drive-through. The microphone part would be fine; it was the window that might cause a problem.

"Whopper Junior with cheese, six-piece chicken tenders, two orders of fries, and two milkshakes, one chocolate and one strawberry. Extra napkins."

There. Enough calories to keep both Wilson and Linda happy.

As a precaution, Rainie covered most of her face with her scarf and slid down in the seat as they got close. They pulled forward and, miraculously, paid for the food and received it without any problem. Rainie kept her face covered, and House looked away for most of the transaction.

They drove down the street and pulled over.

Rainie had made the intelligent choice—the chicken tenders were a lot less messy than House's burger. But then, his hands were now less clumsy than hers, so it evened out.

They ate in silence, just enjoying the freedom to eat greasy fast food, be out on their own, and pretend that this was how life always was.

After two chicken tenders, a few fries and a third of her chocolate milkshake, Rainie was sated. Still sipping on the shake, she wrapped up the rest of her food and put it back in the bag between them.

"Thanks for this," she said, not quite looking at House, who had just about reached his limit, too, after half a burger and half of his fries. He dumped the leftovers back in the bag and wiped his mouth.

"Had to eat," he said.

"Not just the food. The drive. Everything."

He belched—loudly—and then looked at her, startled. She laughed.

"You're excused. Okay, up to Raritan, which will take back us to Princeton," she said, looking at the map.

Now that she'd eaten, she was extremely tired. She hoped he had a little more energy than she did.

Five minutes later, when the lyrics again collided with his feelings, House debated saying something to Rainie, but when he looked over, her eyes were closed. She'd fallen asleep.

Just as well.

_Oh, you are my darlin'. You're all that I see. If you really love me, be honest with me._


	59. Chapter 59: Pre-Existing Condition

Pre-Existing Condition…

"**H**ow did you keep it from your husband?" asked Jacey, gently, at the beginning of one session. "You were coming home bruised and battered on a regular basis, not to mention the emotional toll it must have taken on you."

Rainie smiled ruefully and spoke matter-of-factly. She always seemed to start the sessions with her emotions in check.

"Pathetic as it may sound, it wasn't too hard to hide the physical stuff. Jeff was traveling a lot. He is…_was_… a cinematographer, and for most of the time, he was off on location in Vancouver. Thompson's men seemed to know when he was going to be home, and they'd ease up for a while. The emotional stuff was harder. I did my best to hide how I felt from him. I got pathetically good at lying on the phone.

"If Jeff commented on my mood, I'd blame it on my job. Or lack of sleep from walking the floor with Evie. Or someone was rude to me in the deli down the street. Or I was just plain tired. What was harder, surprisingly, was keeping it from Evie's daycare people. I had to lie constantly about when Jeff was in town, so they'd think… think he'd caused my injuries."

She drifted off into her own mind. It wasn't hard for Jacey and House to guess that Rainie was thinking about how distressing it had been to let people think her husband had beaten her. After a long pause, she took a deep breath and continued.

"Whenever Jeff noticed anything physical, I always had an excuse. Tripped, clumsy, careless. Jeff had been dealing with my condition for a long time anyway, so I just let him think this was more of the same, that I was having a bad spell of it—you know, falling, stumbling, that sort of thing. And that really wasn't too far off, since the stress was aggravating everything."

House suddenly snapped to attention. Focusing on her keenly, he said, "Wait a second. I'm your doctor. I didn't see anything in your file about a condition. _What_ condition?"

She looked at him, perplexed.

"Didn't someone tell you?"

No, no one told him. Of course, the records he'd gotten from the prison hospital weren't exactly complete. Hadn't her entire medical history been brought to him? Yes, he thought it had. Why hadn't someone—meaning him—double-checked? Isn't that what he was famous for—re-running tests, re-checking medical records, never trusting anything until he'd done it himself?

He rapidly flipped through the diagnostic textbook of his brain. What could cause muscle weakness, clumsiness, falling and be accentuated by stress? Muscular dystrophy? Myasthenia gravis? Fibromyalgia? Lupus? ALS? Guillain-Barre? There were dozens of possibilities. Which one? And how bad was it?

When he finally spoke, his voice had a slight edge to it.

"What is it, Rainie? What have you got?"

"I-It's nothing, really. I have fibromyalgia. I thought you knew."

Damn it, thought House, closing his eyes for a moment and fighting the desire to grimace. With everything else going on, it never dawned on him that she might have had a preexisting condition he knew nothing about. It could be worse, he supposed. It could be one of the ones that was progressive or even fatal. But the one she had was bad enough, given the circumstances. Fibromyalgia amplifies the sensation of pain, making even minor pain excruciating. If his own pain was unbearable, how much worse was hers, augmented by this chronic pain condition?

He felt ill, remembering all the nights he'd heard her crying out. The memory of those cries seared him.

Suddenly, he was furious with himself. If he'd just done his job properly, she could have been spared some of the anguish she'd felt over the past few months. Fibromyalgia explained the migraines, too. If he'd done his job, she could have been receiving treatment under his care. But no. Because of his negligence, she had suffered through a lot more pain than she had to. It was intolerable. And it was his fault.

In his self-directed rage, House raised his voice. "Do you mean to tell me you have a chronic pain condition, and it's been going untreated all this time?!"

She'd never heard this kind of anger from him before, but she certainly knew what that tone of voice meant.

Staring at his angry face, Rainie began to hyperventilate. Fear overtaking her, she knew she had to escape, to flee what was undoubtedly coming. _He was going to hurt her. She knew it. And when he did, there would be no one left she could trust. No one._ She couldn't catch her breath, and her heart was thumping so hard, she could hear it pulsing in her ears. Pushing herself as far from him as she could, she found herself backed up against the arm of the couch.

How to get away? Looking around frantically, she could see only one way out. With a frightened yelp, she slid off the couch onto the floor and crawled quickly all the way under the coffee table, curling up as tight as she could, covering her head with her hands, exposing her back, and squeezing her eyes shut tight as she cringed and waited for him to hit her.

It happened so fast, she was under the table before either House or Jacey Liu realized what was going on.

House immediately slid down onto the floor and scrambled toward her.

"Oh, my God, Rainie!—_Shit!_—I'm so sorry! It's okay—really. I'm not angry with you. I didn't mean to scare you!"

As he inched closer, her panic grew. Mewling with fright, she scooted further under the table, crying now in absolute terror. When his arm reached out for her, she screamed.

Behind him, he heard Jacey's loud stage whisper: "Greg! Back off!"

Stop. Just stop. Of course. He knew that. Back off. Heeding her warning, he pulled himself back. Battling the desire to pull her toward him and hold her, he did nothing for a moment, then slowly eased himself away from her hiding place. His heart was beating madly.

Jacey came up behind him, careful not to touch him, for fear of setting off an even worse situation.

Softly, she asked him, "Are you okay, Greg?"

"No… no," he whispered. He thought of the times he'd reacted just as Rainie had—when he'd wedged himself into a corner or crawled away as fast as he could from any perceived threat.

_No, I'm not okay. How could I do this to her? How could I, of all people, do this? I screwed up as her doctor, and now I've scared her half to death. How could I do this? Useless. I'm useless._

He closed his eyes, sick with self-loathing.

Slowly, so as not to startle Rainie, who was still cowering under the table, Jacey helped House back up onto the couch, where he curled himself up and waited, miserably watching Rainie, lost in a foggy alternate universe of terror.

After a couple of minutes, Rainie slowly stopped crying, although she was still shaking with fright. She opened her eyes hesitantly, and looked around fearfully.

Very softly, very gently, House spoke.

"Rainie, please, _please_, listen to me. I promise I wasn't angry with you—I was angry with myself. Don't be frightened of me. I… I could never hurt you."

"It's safe to come out," added Jacey, quietly. "It's safe. No one's going to hurt you."

It was another couple of minutes before Rainie stopped shaking, and a few more before she gradually crawled out from under the table. Instead of returning to her spot on the couch, however, she stayed on the floor for a long while, eventually pulling herself up into a chair. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she huddled, refusing to look at House.

"Rainie, can you hear me?" asked Jacey.

Her head down between her knees, Rainie nodded cautiously.

"Do you know you're safe now?" Jacey asked.

Her eyes still downcast, Rainie shook her head, and curled herself up even tighter.

House felt sick.

"Greg didn't mean to frighten you, Rainie." She motioned to House to say something.

He didn't know what to say. What had Wilson said when he'd been frightened? Or Linda?

Often they'd made jokes, but somehow he didn't think that was going to work in this situation. Sometimes, they'd just been calm and soothing. He'd already done as much calm and soothing as he knew how to do.

"I don't know what to say, Rainie… I-I just don't know what to say…"

His voice cracked with emotion, and he could feel hot tears on his cheeks.

Finally, when she heard his voice crack, Rainie looked over, seeing his tears of remorse and frustration. Slowly, very slowly, she unwound. First one leg and then the other straightened out, and then she used the chair as a crutch to help her get back to the couch, where she settled herself back into her spot next to House.

He couldn't look at her, knowing what he'd done… and what he hadn't done. He stared in the other direction, gazing downward.

Then, when he was completely wrapped up in his own misery, he felt something brush his hand. Looking up and over, he realized that her left hand was resting on top of his right.

Very briefly, their eyes met, and then he looked away again.

She moved closer to him.

He tried not to flinch.

And then, gently, she laid her head on his shoulder and sighed.

Stunned by her willingness to trust him again, he asked, "Are you sure?"

She looked up at him a little shakily, and then replied, "Mm-hmm."

Cautiously, he put his arm around her. She leaned in closer. He brought his other arm around and held her tightly.

"Sorry."

"I know you are."


	60. Chapter 60: The Question of Evil

The Question of Evil…

**THE QUESTION OF EVIL**

_**Introduction**_

When Thomas Aquinas wrote, "Good and evil are essential differences of the act of the will," he was not referring to an abstract evil. He was not just talking about Good and Evil in a biblical sense; he was talking about real evil done by real people in a real world.

We see and hear evil around us every day. Evil is not the small, petty annoyance, but rather it is what we hear on the news: a woman kills her husband because he forgot to buy bacon; a foster parent neglects and abuses a small child; it's torture during war; a corporation dumps toxic chemicals into a city's drinking water; a man stalks and strangles his ex-girlfriend.

These acts of evil are personal. They are all acts of will and they are all preventable. That's the thing about evil. It's always preventable, if the people committing it could just be stopped in time. The only reason we hear of a tragedy or an atrocity is that someone didn't stop it in time. We are seldom notified when people contemplating evil change their minds, or are otherwise prevented from following through on their intentions.

I am not a religious person. Never have been. I believe in what I can see and hear and smell and touch and taste and feel. I believe in science, and I believe in history. I do have a justifiable terror of those who hold passionate religious beliefs, however, because I know from history and from life that they can be very dangerous. But that's the subject for a different book.

There is one thing I believe in that is not tangible, and that is my unreasonable belief in hope. What do I hope for? I'm still figuring it out, but here is some of what I've come up with:

I hope that truth will eventually conquer lies.

I hope that intelligent people will solve serious problems.

I hope that what I do and how I do it matters, somewhere, somehow, to someone.

I hope that evil will be stopped in time.

When I was a student, I denied the existence of evil. I had a misguided notion that evil people were merely misunderstood, or had been judged badly by others.

I was wrong.

I met evil while trying to do good (and probably failing, as most of us do), while doing the job I've felt called to do since I was 14. Evil sneaked up behind me, wrapped its filthy, slimy hands around my neck and sucked out my soul. That's how evil works. It sneaks up behind you and attacks you when you're minding your own business, doing your life's work.

I never claimed to be a good person, at least not by any traditional definition of goodness. But I know what is important to me and I have attempted throughout my life to live up to my own standards, even if those standards don't belong to anyone else.

Despite my lack of what others call faith and my ready acknowledgment that I don't perceive myself as particularly good, I can say absolutely that I have seen pure evil face to face. I live with its consequences.

Evil killed me—or at least the person I once was. It destroyed my life, left me in constant, excruciating pain and forever altered my future. And yet I continue to hope.

Because of my belief in hope, I am attempting to leave my dead life behind. To my astonishment, I can still find joy in a sunset, a soft breeze, a great piece of music, a beautiful work of art, or a gentle touch. Even more surprising, a part of me looks forward to the future. But never again will I deny the existence of evil. I know it, I've lived with it, I've feared it, I've faced it and I've survived it. I still don't understand it, but I am positive it exists.

It's the ultimate mystery, isn't it? What is evil? How does it develop? How does it flourish? How can one face evil and survive?

I don't have the answers, but I propose to ask the questions.

Should you ever run into evil face to face, I hope you will be heartened to know that someone, somewhere, somehow has faced the worst that evil can dish up, and has endured.

**H**e opened the missing file, just sent over from Rainie's former doctor, scanning down through the medical records until he found what he was looking for. Diagnosed with fibromyalgia twelve years ago following a three-year period during which she had seen 17 doctors in an attempt to get a diagnosis. Pain levels occasionally extreme, often leading to muscle weakness. Regular bouts with migraines. A number of medications had been tried, none terribly successful.

Since her last doctor's appointment, more than four years ago, newer medications had been developed that showed promise. After talking it over with Synthia Little, he prescribed Lyrica, recently approved by the FDA. It didn't work in every case, and the side effects, which included impaired motor function and difficulties with concentration and attention, might be unacceptable to Rainie.

But at least he was behaving more like a doctor and less like an idiot.

**G**uilt was a terrible thing. It made otherwise sane people behave in very odd ways.

This had to stop. Ever since he'd found out about her fibromyalgia, House had been acting strangely, treading carefully around Rainie, and she'd just about had it. This is exactly why she never told anyone, unless—like Jeff—they needed to know.

It was a big, fat, royal pain in the ass to have everyone being solicitous and worried and walking around on eggshells. They couldn't do anything about it anyway, and giving her the big puppy dog eyes and all that sympathy made her want to throw up. Besides, it just made her think about how much her body hurt, and the more she thought about it, the more it hurt.

Now the one person in years who had treated her normally was doing it, too. Every morning since that unfortunate therapy session—the one where she wound up under the table—Greg had come into her room, doctorly and professional, and checked her out.

And every morning he asked the one question the two of them had already admitted they detested. She put up with it the first time, and even the second. But after four days of this, she'd finally had it.

"How are you feeling?"

She blew up. She was so annoyed, the words just spilled out in one big rush, not providing him a single opportunity to respond.

"God damn it, Greg! _Et tu_? For crying out loud, what's the matter with you?! Are you looking for the magic answer? The one where I tell you I feel great, so you can stop feeling guilty? Sorry. Fresh out. Here's the real answer:

"I feel like crap. I've felt like crap for years. I will feel like crap tomorrow, and every day for the rest of my life. Thanks to Thompson, I feel even crappier. That's not changing either.

"Let's get this straight, once and for all. Nothing you say or do will change the fact that I feel like crap. That's how it is and how it's going to be. You may be able to find some wonderful drug that will make me feel less crappy without turning my mind to mush, but that's the most you can hope for.

"All this fuss is not making me feel better. You're just drawing attention to something I'd really like to avoid thinking about, and frankly, you're just plain pissing me off. So, do us both a favor, and don't ask me again."

She looked him dead in the eye. He squirmed. Then she hit him with the big one.

"I liked you better before, when you weren't all awkward and behaving like an jerk. Come on, Greg. Be a mensch. Be yourself. I don't need your pity—I get enough of that from everyone else. And I really don't need the whole doctor thing—I'm surprised you're not wearing one of those stupid white lab coats. What I get from you that no one else gives me anymore—what I really need from you—is respect and friendship. You've always treated me like a human being, not some pathetic object. Don't screw it up now."

He hadn't moved through her entire tirade. Finally, he exhaled. She was right, of course. In his own self-absorbed way, he'd been behaving as if it were all about him and his guilt, and not about what she needed or wanted.

She had a startling ability to pinpoint the truth and an unwillingness to settle for anything less. She refused to allow him to be less than he was capable of being. Didn't necessarily make her an easy companion, but it certainly made her challenging and interesting. Not a bad trait, thought House.

Smiling to himself, he extended his right hand for a shake.

"Deal," he said.

"Deal," she replied.


	61. Chapter 61: Screams in the Night

Screams in the Night…

**O**n a moonless Wednesday night, Wilson was awakened by a low-pitched scream penetrating the adjoining wall with House's apartment. By force of habit, he jumped out of bed, headed up the hall, grabbed his keys from the hook and let himself into House's apartment. He passed Marina, the night nurse, on the way through the living room.

"I'll take care of it," he said.

The initial loud screaming died down quickly, thank goodness—there'd never been a repeat of that awful night when House couldn't stop yelling—but Wilson still heard sounds from the back of the apartment, and saw the light from the lamp in House's room spilling out into the hall.

When he there, he found Rainie sitting on the near side of House's bed, her crutches tossed close by on the floor. She was holding onto House, arms around his shoulders, as he kept repeating, "No! No! No!" over and over, his eyes open but unseeing. He was shivering and panting.

Glancing up as Wilson came through the door, her eyes pleading desperately, she whispered, "It's a bad one … can't you help him?"

"I don't know," he whispered back. "I'll try."

He maneuvered over to the other side of the bed, and sat on the edge, careful not to bump into House, who was trembling. He reached out tentatively, sliding his right arm around House's waist, just below Rainie's arms.

"No! No! No!" yelled House. As Wilson touched him, he began to thrash in the bed.

"It's Wilson, House," said Wilson, soothingly. "We're here. Nothing can hurt you now. It's okay."

He nodded his head toward Rainie, encouraging her to speak.

"Greg, it's Rainie. I'm here. We've got you. You're safe."

House suddenly became a lot more agitated.

"Rainie!" he yelled. "No! No! No!"

"I'm making it worse—I should leave," she said, pulling back and looking like she might cry. She blinked a couple of times and nibbled at her lower lip.

Wilson suddenly realized that if he wasn't careful, House's nightmare could trigger a similar flashback in Rainie, and then he'd have a real mess on his hands. Both of them had been so edgy lately, it didn't take much to set them off.

"I'm not sure, but I don't think so," whispered Wilson. "Sit tight, and let's see what happens. If it gets too much for you, go on back to your room."

"No! No! No!" said House again, getting even more disturbed. "Rainie!"

"I'm here," she said, hesitantly, stroking his face with her right hand. "I'm right here."

"No! Dear God, no!" he said, his voice dropping into a lower register. His face looked like something out of a Kurosawa movie. It was theatrically tragic. His haunted, hollow eyes stared at something that wasn't there, and a look of absolute horror came across his face. Then his voice dropped further, and he pleaded. "No… oh, no…"

After a moment, if such a thing were possible, the look of sheer horror became more pronounced. Wilson didn't think he'd seen House blink his eyes in more than a minute.

"Rainie… no…" whispered the tormented man, "…please…" he begged, "…no… no… don't hurt her… Don't hurt her anymore."

Wilson stopped breathing for a moment, stunned. For the first time that he was aware of, his damaged friend was dreaming not about his own torture, but rather he seemed to be watching helplessly as Rainie was suffering. Wilson didn't know if her presence in the room had changed the direction of the nightmare, or if House had been dreaming about Rainie all along.

Petrified, Rainie stared at House, who continued to plead for the unknown tormentors not to hurt her. He'd done so much for her already, and now even his subconscious was trying to save her.

"Leave her alone!" he beseeched.

Then, imploring, pleading, begging, "Don't hurt Rainie… Hurt me instead…"

"_Ohhhh!_" gasped Rainie involuntarily, staggered by the implication that he would willingly allow himself to be hurt on her behalf. After a few deep breaths, she tried to talk, tears spilling from her eyes. Her voice was breathy and unsure.

"Greg, listen to me. It's Rainie! I'm… here. I'm all right. Please wake up. Please."

She clung tightly to him, leaning her head on his shoulder and rubbing his back with one hand as she continued to stroke his face with the other. Wilson could see her own terrors begin to play across her face.

House shuddered, and began to cry.

"No more. Please no more. Please… don't do this… don't hurt her anymore."

"I'm all right, Greg. Really, I'm all right. Please come back to me."

She tried to turn his face toward hers, but he looked right through her. Then he slid down onto the bed, taking her and Wilson with him.

"_Noooooooo_…" he said quietly, as his eyes slowly shut and his tears made rivers down his face and onto the pillow. "Oh, Rainie…"

After another five minutes of sobbing, House finally woke up. Still shaking and weeping, his eyes opened again, and he looked cautiously around until he saw her.

"R-Rainie?"

"Y-yes."

He searched her face intently for a long time as he caught his breath.

Finally, "Y-you're all right?"

His eyes never left hers.

"Yes," she said softly, as she wiped tears from his face. "I'm fine. Worried about you, but otherwise fine."

He closed his eyes and exhaled.

"Thank God."

Rainie realized that Wilson might as well not have been in the room, which didn't seem right somehow.

"Wilson and I have been with you the whole time." She turned her head and motioned toward Wilson. House's eyes followed the movement.

"Wilson…?" It took House a moment to recognize his friend. When he did, he smiled shakily.

"Do you remember…?" asked Wilson. Sometimes he did, but most often he didn't. This time, it would be so much better if he didn't.

House shuddered.

"I'm afraid so," he said, breathily. He looked again at Rainie, as if ensuring that she was really all right. For the first time, he noticed that she was crying.

"Sure you're okay?"

She smiled, wiping tears away with her fingers. "I'm fine, now that you're really awake. You had us pretty scared."

"That's nothing on how it had me," said House, finally unwinding a little bit.

**T**he Lyrica wasn't working. Or rather, it might have been helping the fibromyalgia pain, but the side effects were awful, and because of all her other pain, any minimal decrease from the drug was negligible.

"I can't concentrate," complained Rainie, when he asked her how it was going. "This stuff is making me stupid. I'm going to hurt anyway, no matter what drug you put me on. Stop the treatment, and let me have my brain back."


	62. Chapter 62: When the Phone Rang

When the Phone Rang…

**W**henever Wilson's office phone rang, he checked the return number on the LCD before picking up, to prepare himself for whoever was on the other end—a distraught patient, angry ex-wife or agitated best friend.

So when, at 11:20 on a Monday morning, he saw House's home number, he had a tiny moment of panic.

"House?"

"No, actually, it's Rainie."

"Rainie? What's wrong?! Is everything okay?"

He heard her laugh.

"You know what? You're really funny in a totally neurotic, semi-freaked-out, adorable, fuzzy pet kind of a way."

Slowly, as she felt safer around him, Rainie had allowed her sense of humor to wiggle out. Although not as harsh as House's and considerably more whimsical, her humor did share with his an affectionate, needling quality, which was familiar and almost comforting to Wilson. He understood this kind of humor, and bantering with Rainie had brought them closer, although he was still not sure if she really considered him a friend. Given her experiences, she might not ever.

"And I should take that to mean nothing's wrong?"

"Bingo," she said.

"So what's up? Social call? Need me to pick up potatoes on my way home? Meaningless, pointless, time-waster? What?"

"Bzzzzt. None of the above."

"So, what is it then? What's so important that you called here?"

"I want to go out to dinner."

Not only did Rainie share intelligence and an oddball sense of humor with House, she also—like House—had a talent for using non-sequiturs in really frustrating ways.

"What? Right now? It's not even lunch time."

"No, you doofus. Tonight. Or if not tonight, then tomorrow night."

"And you're talking to me about this_ because_…" He drew out the word "because" for about ten seconds.

"…_because_ a certain grumpy doctor person thinks I couldn't possibly want anything as mundane as dinner out, that I couldn't possibly be…"—the volume of her voice rose, as if she were saying this for the benefit of someone in the room with her—"…_going completely cabin-fever stir-crazy cooped up with Mr. Cheerful day in and day out_.

Her voice dropped back into a normal range.

"That I don't have the brains to realize that this is a recipe—sorry, bad choice of words—for disaster, what with all those people out in the universe waiting to lynch us for being so damned ugly. That's why."

"Well, he does have a point…" began Wilson.

Rainie cut him off.

"Are we talking about the damned ugly part?"

"No, no, of course not."

"Good, `cause otherwise I would definitely have to hurt you. Do you really think I'm so dumb or so innocent that I don't realize this has 'The Titanic' written all over it? People will stare and point and say things. We'll get upset, maybe even freak out. I know, I know.

"Here's the part he's not getting: I don't care. I don't care if it turns out badly. I don't care if I regret it later. I don't care if it makes me cry—God knows I'm getting familiar enough with my own waterworks by now. I cry at the Westminster Dog Show and when the mailman slides the mail through the slot. What are a few more tears? What I care about is getting out of here for an hour or so, and not just for another safe drive in the car, protected by two tons of motor metal."

Wilson didn't know what to say. It was clear Rainie knew what she wanted, and it was equally clear that House was being difficult. Was she playing him against his best friend, or just looking for an ally?

"So, is he there?"

"Where? Here? Oh, sure. He's sitting right next to me, covering his ears, doing the 'hear no evil' thing, going 'la la la' and pretending to watch _Dora the Explorer_."

"Has he actually heard what you've said to me?"

"Absolutely. Every word."

"How do you know?"

"Because he's making faces at me and trying to… _Hey! Let go, you big ape! Stop that!_"

After a pause, accompanied by some sort of commotion, a change of speaker. Wilson could hear Rainie's voice in the background, but he couldn't discern any individual words. It was clear she wasn't genuinely upset; rather, her tone of voice reflected mock distress.

"Wilson?"

"You know it's me, House. What's the problem here, and why have you both decided to involve me in it?"

"Stubborn. She's a stubborn little… I don't know… panther," said House. "_Come on, now! Watch it with that!_"

The second part was obviously directed at Rainie, who was doing something that deserved watching. Wilson ignored it.

"And you're just now figuring out that she's stubborn? How do you think she…"

Whoa, thought Wilson, stopping himself. Don't go there. He'd gotten so comfortable with the banter, he almost said something he was going to regret. He almost said, _How do you think she survived all those years if she wasn't as stubborn as you?_ Now, how to get himself back out of it?

"…recuperated from that back surgery so quickly, if she wasn't stubborn?"

There was a pause on the other end.

"That's not what you were going to say, was it?"

Tell the truth or lie? Well, House had been telling a lot of truth lately. Maybe better just go for it.

"No, House, it wasn't. But that's not the point. What's your problem—other than the obvious ones Rainie already mentioned—with going out to dinner?"

"You know exactly what it is. It's everything she said. _Hey! Stop it! That tickles…!_"

Although he was dying to know what tickled, Wilson bypassed that part of the conversation and got to the point.

"And yet, she wants to do it. So what's the real problem? I can think of only two reasons that you wouldn't want to mention in front of her. Shall I spell them out?"

House sighed. "Be my guest. _I said, stop that!_"

"One. You're afraid that if one or both of you freak out, the other won't be able to handle it."

"Good start. And…?"

"Two. You don't want her to get hurt."

The line got very quiet. For a long time.

"House?"

"Yes."

The very definite tone of House's voice made Wilson know that the 'yes' was actually confirming for him that he'd been right.

"I was right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Interesting. Shoe. Other foot. It's your turn to learn how this feels. If there's anything I've learned out of this adventure, it's that occasionally you have to let someone try something scary just to see if they'll succeed. You—and by that, I mean I—can't create a safe, protective bubble.

"So she gets hurt. Let's be realistic here, House. She's been hurt. Very, very badly hurt. And she's survived it, partly because she's a stubborn little panther. She's itching to do this, which is really brave of her. I had to drag you out the first few times. She's initiating it. Let her do it."

"And the other reason? _Will you settle down?_"

The other reason? Oh, the other reason—the other one he didn't want to say in front of her.

"How about if Evan and I go along? That way, no matter what happens, someone's there to handle it."

"That works."

Wilson heard another scuffle, and then Rainie's voice said "_Ha! Got it!_" loudly in his ear.

"What works?" she asked, laughing at something Wilson could only imagine. "_Oh, no you don't! Step. Away. From. The. Phone. You don't want to do that! Oh, no, really, you don't. Or you'll have me to tangle with._"

Again, Wilson ignored the part he knew was directed at House, although he was fascinated by their playfulness and very aware of the sexual tension underneath it.

"Having Evan and me come along to chaperone."

"Yep, that works. I never said I wanted dinner to be exclusive. I've seen enough of this big grouch for a while. I'd be delighted to share dinner with you two. _What? Now, why would I want to do that?_"

Another commotion. Wilson heard House's muffled voice and Rainie's higher one go back and forth for a moment.

"Oh, and I suppose, if we have to, we can bring Greg along, too."

By this time, Wilson was laughing so hard, he held the phone away from his mouth to keep from spluttering in her ear. When he finally got himself under control, he responded.

"Glad I could help."

"Thanks, Dr. Wilson. James. I knew you would. _What? No, I won't play Monopoly with you. Twister, yes. Monopoly, no._"

Click.

Now, how did she know he would help? _Twister?_

**C**olombo's was dark, so that was good. And it was a Monday night, which was even better. The place was lively and noisy on the weekends, but barely functional on Mondays.

Just to be safe, Wilson called ahead to reserve a table for four in the darkest corner. He considered trying to explain the situation to the fellow who answered the phone, but got the impression there wasn't a whole lot of brainpower happening there. So he asked for the owner.

"Yeah. This is Marty speaking."

"Hi, Marty. This is Dr. Wilson. I don't know if you remember me…"

Dead silence.

"No, I guess not. Well, I'm bringing some friends with me tonight, and I'm hoping you can help me out."

"Yeah?"

"My friends were hurt… in serious accidents… and it's very hard for them when they go out. Their faces were injured, and sometimes people are rude. Can I get you to help me make it easier for them?"

"Whadja have in mind?"

"I thought maybe you could wait on them yourself."

"Naw. Not possible."

"Okay, could you ask whoever does wait on them to please not stare or make any comments?"

"Yeah, I guess. How bad do they look?"

Wilson sighed.

"You know what? This isn't going to work. Please cancel my reservation."

"Yeah, whatever."

Sometimes Wilson hated living in New Jersey.


	63. Chapter 63: Dining Out

Dining Out…

**F**ortunately, there were plenty of Italian restaurants in New Jersey. Wilson tried another, Giordano's, also dark, also quiet on Mondays, and this time he met with success. Giordano's it was.

At 7:35, Wilson and Evan bundled House and Rainie into the back seat of Wilson's Volvo. A light rain was falling as they pulled out of the driveway. They arrived at the restaurant about ten to eight. Wilson pulled up in front, and Evan helped Rainie and House out of the back seat. Both had decided that, because of the rain, they might feel a little safer using walkers than crutches.

They had dressed carefully for the occasion. House was wearing a grey, wool flat cap, the brim shading his eyes and thereby camouflaging some of the scars on his face. He had turned the collar of his raincoat up, and wore a scarf around his neck. Rainie had wrapped a soft, gauzy scarf over her hair and around her neck, looping it a couple of times to protect her neck and to conceal part of her face—the only exposed parts were her eyes and nose and a little of her mouth. And yet the look was casually artistic, as if the evening rain had chilled her, not that she was trying to hide her face. She wore a long, black skirt and a dark green, loose-fitting blouse, her feet shod in soft suede black boots. Silky kid-leather gloves covered her hands.

By the time they made it in the front door, Wilson had parked the car and caught up with them. The goal of the evening was to be as inconspicuous as possible, so House and Wilson entered casually together, while Evan followed behind with Rainie.

"Wilson. Table for four. We have a reservation," said Wilson.

The hostess, a young girl hardly out of her teens, barely glanced at them, grabbed four menus and whisked away, calling out, "Follow me," as she disappeared around a corner.

Rainie had a small moment of panic, realizing neither she nor House could hope to keep up that pace, and irrationally afraid that Evan and Wilson would suddenly abandon them there in an attempt to follow the hostess. She needn't have worried.

"She'll figure it out eventually," said Wilson, turning back to whisper quietly in her ear, "when she gets to the table and we're nowhere in sight. She'll have to come back for us."

Sure enough. A minute later, the hostess came back to find her four patrons only a few paces further along.

"Oh, uh, sorry," she said, looking more closely at the walkers.

The four of them had planned the evening as carefully as they could, and one of the things they had decided beforehand was that, for protection, Rainie should be surrounded by the rest of them as much as possible, so that if anyone were going to react, it would be to House, who had more experience dealing with it.

That turned out to be a wise decision when the hostess caught a glimpse of House's face as they passed under a lamp, and a small "oh, my God" slipped out of her mouth. She swallowed it, turned, and slowly headed again into the dining room. This time, she was only about ten paces ahead of the group.

Clearly, despite Wilson's best intentions, the staff—or at least this particular staff person—had not been forewarned.

As promised, they were in a dark corner, and better yet, in a booth. With Wilson's help, Rainie slid in first and then he followed, their backs to the rest of the room. House was seated across from Rainie, with Evan next to him.

Almost immediately, a basket of bread arrived and their bread plates were drenched with dark olive oil and black balsamic vinegar. Glasses of water clunked down onto the tablecloth, the water swaying like ocean waves. None of the servers paid the slightest attention to the customers.

Their waiter, Frank, showed up a moment later to distribute the large menus, which Rainie immediately used to shield herself, as if she just had to read every word.

"Anything to drink?" he asked. "There's a nice selection of wines on the… Wait, you didn't get a wine list. Hold on." He reached over to a nearby empty table and grabbed the wine list from it. "Here you go," he said, handing the list to Wilson.

"Give us a couple minutes, okay?" said Wilson.

After Frank wandered off, the table was quiet for a moment as everyone perused the menu.

"Well, do we actually want any wine?" he asked.

"I'd love some," said Rainie, "but I get the feeling you three are going to tell me I shouldn't."

"Sorry" said Wilson. "Probably not a good idea with all those painkillers in your system."

"Didn't think so," she said. "Worth a try, though."

"Anyone else?" asked Wilson. "I, for one, am going to have a glass of Chianti."

House demurred, not because he didn't want a glass of wine, but because he didn't feel up to arguing over whether or not he should have one. Evan went with the Chianti also, so he and Wilson decided to split a bottle.

When Rainie was very young, perhaps five, she'd stayed with her mother's mother for a few days. Grand-mère took her out to eat, explaining beforehand that Rainie must behave like a lady, because restaurants were very special places, and only good little girls got to go there. So she had been very, very good, putting on her best manners, and had been terribly excited by the formality of being waited upon. Now, hiding behind her menu, Rainie felt that same sense of excitement. Although eating in a restaurant was no longer a novel experience, it felt as if it were new again.

"So, what do we want?" asked Wilson, who had become used to taking charge in public settings and had clearly decided that he was the host for the evening.

What they wanted and what they could handle were two different things. Rainie was longing for linguini with clam sauce, but House had already warned her about the dangers of long, thin pasta. She ordered penne with chicken and portabella mushrooms. House settled for the penne arrabiata, Evan got the tortellini and Wilson went for chicken piccata.

They considered an appetizer, but given how small Rainie and House's appetites were, it seemed pointless, until Rainie pointed out that if they ordered a lot, they could also take home lots of leftovers. They got the calamari.

After only a few bites of her pasta, Rainie was full. Her dexterity with utensils had improved dramatically since her adventure with the scrambled eggs, but she was eagerly looking forward to the enhancements that would come with her first hand surgery in a few weeks.

For once, House was quiet. Sitting opposite her, he had said very little since they arrived. Now that she was done eating, Rainie leaned back and watched him eat for a moment. He had definitely put on weight since they'd been home; he no longer had that gaunt, wasted look.

His forced casualness tonight didn't fool her. She knew he was worried that something might go wrong, and that she would get upset. Which was sweet, if idiotic. But so far, everything was fine, and she was having a wonderful time.

She turned her head to catch part of the conversation between Wilson and Evan, who were deeply involved in a discussion of techniques for cooking the perfect _al dente_ pasta.

Smiling, she swiveled back around to find House's eyes on her. When he realized she'd caught him observing her, his eyes dropped back down to his plate. She thought she saw a flush of pink on his face; she was quite sure she hadn't imagined the catch in his breath.

She was tempted to force the issue, but this really wasn't the time or the place for that kind of conversation.

Once everyone had finished, the plates removed and the leftovers boxed up, Rainie suggested dessert.

"Dessert? You had a couple pieces of calamari, and ate three bites of your dinner. What do you want dessert for, punkin?" asked Evan.

Rainie looked surprised.

"Why, to take home, of course. I may not be able to eat it now, but it will be wonderful to know it's there later. And as much trouble as it's been to get to this place, I doubt we're going to be doing the restaurant thing too often."

She got a few snorts of laughter from around the table. For much of the dinner, she had forgotten—she had actually forgotten!—her experiences of the past four years. This was the most comfortable she had felt since the whole nightmare began.

They ordered four cannoli to go, and asked for the check. When Frank, their waiter, returned and handed the bill to Wilson—who certainly gave the impression of being in charge—he mentioned that he was going off duty in a couple minutes, and would they mind settling up with Angel over there? He pointed to a young woman with long dark hair.

"No problem," said Wilson.

But, of course, there was a problem. And the problem was Angel, who had not, apparently, been forewarned about the patrons in the booth. Although House still wore his cap and Rainie her scarf—pulled down a little further now, but still covering much of her face—and the booth was quite dark, Angel could not hide her shock at seeing them. Nor could she hide her revulsion, which was a reaction Rainie had not encountered before.

After she left the table with Wilson's credit card, Angel called out, quite clearly, to someone in the kitchen, "Jesus! You should see those freaks at table 27. They look like something out of a horror movie."

In a matter of seconds, Rainie went from feeling happy and attractive to being devastated. She began to shake. Was it really that bad? Did she really look like something in a horror movie? As she tried to gain control over her emotions, she looked at House and tried to extrapolate from his damaged face to her own. But because she had come to know the force of his personality early on, she had never really contemplated what he—and therefore she—must look like to others.

She still couldn't see it. All she saw was Greg.

When he heard Angel's tactless comments, House stopped breathing. How bad was it going to get? This was a mistake. He never should have allowed it.

He looked at Rainie, who was shaking and gulping for air. She stared in his direction without really seeing him. He couldn't tell what she was feeling, other than shock, but he mentally prepared himself for her to fall apart. She swallowed and blinked back a couple of tears. Then she looked right at him and seemed to calm down. Much to his surprise, that's all that happened.

As Rainie was working to reconcile her feelings about what had happened, Mrs. Giordano, the owner, suddenly appeared at their table.

"I'm so sorry. Please forgive me," she said. "I am so embarrassed that this happened. I hope you will forgive us."

It was Rainie's call. They all turned to see how she was going to react. She was shocked and disappointed, but she'd known going in something might happen. And she wasn't about to let it ruin what had otherwise been a lovely evening. After all, she was stubborn.

"Don't worry. It's okay," she said, graciously.

Mrs. Giordano wouldn't be consoled. She took 25 dollars off their bill, and sent them home with more cannoli than they would ever be able to eat.

On the way out, they heard Mrs. Giordano yelling at Angel for being so stupid and rude.

All in all, it wasn't a bad evening. And now they knew they could go to Giordano's if they wanted to go out.


	64. Chapter 64: A Headache and Nausea

A Headache and Nausea…

"**H**ow goes it?" asked Linda as she poked her head into Rainie's room around one in the afternoon. Her patients' sleep was so fitful and so often interrupted by nightmares that if they actually slept, she tended let them keep whatever hours suited them. Today's breakfast was served on trays at lunchtime and an hour later, both House and Rainie were still in bed.

"Not so good," admitted Rainie. "I feel really nauseated. Could you help me get to the bathroom? I think I'm going to throw up."

"Here," said Linda, handing Rainie the emesis basin from the bedside table.

"No," Rainie replied crossly, thrusting it away. "That's disgusting. Take me to the bathroom."

_Quite the temper,_ thought Linda, amused. _I sure got a couple of strong-willed patients. Not a bad thing, I guess, even if it means they're a big pain in the ass sometimes. Being strong-willed kept them both alive all those years._

With a resigned smile, Linda pulled Rainie's wheelchair to the edge of the bed, and gently helped her patient off the bed and into the chair, then wheeled her to the bathroom. Within a few seconds, Rainie was heaving into the toilet.

After making sure she was okay on her own, Linda walked the few paces to the entrance of House's bedroom, where, after knocking and opening the door a crack, she spoke into the absolute darkness.

"Doc? You awake?"

She heard House moving around.

"Of course I'm awake. When am I not awake? You should know by now that sleep and I are not exactly on friendly terms. Why are you bothering me?"

His answer was tinged with exasperation. _Great_, she thought. _They're both cranky today._

"Something's going on with Rainie. Could you come take a look?"

Light filled the room as House snapped on the bedside lamp. He struggled to sit up. His whole demeanor had changed, transforming him from the irritable patient into the concerned doctor.

"What's happening?"

"She's throwing up in the bathroom. Doesn't look good. Maybe a bad reaction to the back surgery."

"Give me a minute and I'll be right out."

Knowing from experience that he didn't like her to see how much trouble he had getting out of bed, Linda closed the door gently and returned to Rainie, who was still in the bathroom, leaning over the toilet.

"Doc'll be with you in a minute. Need anything? Would some ginger ale help?"

Rainie looked up.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"I'll get it."

By the time Linda got back with the ginger ale, House had managed to get out of bed and was ka-thumping his way toward the bathroom on his walker.

"Hey, what's up?" he asked as he entered the bathroom, his voice a study in nonchalance.

"I feel dreadful," said Rainie. She looked dreadful, so he didn't doubt it.

He inched closer to her, pressing his hand to her forehead, detecting a slight fever.

"Any other symptoms besides the obvious?"

"Really bad headache."

"Migraine?"

"No. Different."

She closed her eyes, trying to fight off the nausea.

"If you're done tossing your guts, let's get you back to bed. I want to check you out."

A couple of minutes later, Rainie was back in bed, looking wan.

"**Y**es, Mrs. Stanley, I can get you in on the 23rd."

Celia Merckel looked up to find the head of the hospital standing in front of her.

"Could you hold just a minute, Mrs. Stanley? Thanks."

Celia looked up. "What can I do for you, Dr. Cuddy?"

"I need to see Dr. Medina. It's important."

Celia interrupted Alfonzo Medina in the middle of a patient consult, and the two adjourned to Dr. Medina's office. The door must not have latched, because Celia could hear them quite clearly. She didn't catch the whole conversation, what with phone calls and a couple of patients entering the waiting room, but she certainly got the gist. It had something to do with poor Dr. House and that pathetic woman.

"Can't you make an exception?" Cuddy was saying. "House thinks she's having some post-surgical complications."

"I don't see why I should," said Medina impatiently. "They can come here to the hospital and sit in my waiting room like any other patients."

"But they're _not_ like any other patients," said Dr. Cuddy, and Celia could hear the frustration in her voice. "At least try to see her after hours."

"What part of 'no' didn't you get? I'm filling in for Karen while she's on vacation, and I'll treat her patients as I see fit."

Just then, the phone rang again and Celia missed part of the conversation.

"Dr. Medina's office. Oh, hello, Mr. Chao. No, your appointment is on Wednesday morning. You're welcome."

Behind her, the volume had increased slightly.

"This is really rather urgent, Medina, and she can't be moved easily. In addition, she's still far too delicate emotionally to be interacting with other people in this way."

"I have these systems in place for a reason, and I won't make any exceptions."

Cuddy sighed with annoyance.

"Your conduct is unacceptable, Medina. Believe me, you'll hear about this when it comes time for your review."

"I've got tenure, and I don't care. Just because you give House whatever he wants and everyone else genuflects when the man is in the building doesn't mean I have to."

"So you're going to take it out on his patient? His very fragile patient?"

Celia heard nothing for a moment. Then Medina spoke sharply.

"This conversation is at an end, Dr. Cuddy."

Suddenly, the door opened and Dr. Cuddy walked angrily out of Medina's office, her heels tapping furiously on the tile as she strode past Celia's desk, and out through the waiting room door.

"**C**ome on, Cuddy! Cut us some slack here. We've got to get her looked at, and quickly."

House's voice sounded light, but Cuddy heard tension underneath the surface.

"Wish I could, House, but I can't tell other doctors how to do their business."

There was a pause before House spoke.

"Never stopped you before."

Damn the man! Even after everything that's happened, he could still get to the real point faster than anyone she'd ever met. This was going to be a no-win.

"Already tried," she admitted. "He won't budge."

"So you're saying we've got no alternative? Even given… our situation… we can't get a house call or a private visit?"

"With Karen Langley on vacation, Medina's filling in for her. I have to respect his wishes. And he wants the two of you to come to his office."

There was no response on the other end of the phone. Cuddy grit her teeth. This was not an ordinary case, and allowances should be made. But pig-headed Alfonzo Medina was going to play by the rules, even when the rules made no sense.

"Have you tried talking to Medina directly?" she asked, finally.

"Won't return my calls. Given our history, he's not likely to do me any favors."

With a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach, Cuddy waited a moment before speaking. Was this how it started with Pevey? If she could help it, she never wanted to see anything like that happen again.

What it came down to is that in the old days House had pissed off far too many of his colleagues—some of whom he now needed. Given the circumstances, nearly all chose to move past the old grudges once they'd learned what House had been through and why. But Medina cherished his bad feelings to the point of irrationality.

Maybe she could try to get in touch with Langley, wherever she was, and see if she'd intervene. Or temporarily override Medina as their replacement orthopedist and switch them over to Eva Gonzalez instead. Gonzalez wasn't as good a doctor, but at least she wasn't difficult.

She sighed.

"Let me see if there's anything I can do," was all she said.

Alone in her office, Cuddy paced, twisting a rubber band in her hands as she walked back, forth and around.

Finally, she picked up the phone and dialed Eva Gonzalez's office.

"Ida, this is Dr. Cuddy. Is Dr. Gonzalez available?"

As she listened, her heart sank.

"Oh, I see. How awful. When did it happen? ... So who's seeing her patients while she's out? I see. Is Dr. Medina able to handle all of them, or are you sending some to other doctors? ... Well, thanks, Ida. If you hear from Dr. Gonzalez, tell her how sorry I am. How old was her brother? ... That young? So sorry to hear it."

Slowly, she put the phone down as she tried to think of an alternative.

Maybe she could pull them out of the system altogether and switch them over to Princeton General. It wasn't impossible, but she'd definitely hear from the board if she tried it. PPTH had a perfectly good orthopedist on staff—why send a patient to Princeton General? And right now, she needed the board on her side if she was going to upgrade the ER.

There was no way out. Unless House could think of something.

"No," said House when she called him back with the bad news. "I can't do this. I can't take her in there."

"Can't or won't?"

"Okay, then. Won't. I won't do this to her. There is no way I'm going to let her sit in a crowded waiting room so some pompous jerk can abide by a bunch of rules he made up himself. If I have to call someone in from New York or Philly and pay for it out of my own pocket, I'll do it. I am not going to let that man look at her."

As it turned out, Rainie didn't have to sit in Medina's waiting room and House didn't have to call in someone from New York or Philly.

**W**hen Evan Schuster let himself in the front door of the duplex, he heard the sound of pain. Not the fearful whimpering he'd gotten used to. This was different.

Concerned, he ran toward her bedroom and then, as he got close to the door, forcibly slowed himself down. _Slow down, you idiot,_ he thought. _When are you going to remember to slow down when you get near her? _His stomach churned, as it always did on the rare occasions when he actually allowed himself to think about what had caused such dramatic changes in his dearest friend.

_Goddamned fucking asshole sons of bitches_, he cursed angrily to himself, finding release in the bad language that ran through his head_. Pointless, useless… needless… sickening violence. For no reason, they had obliterated her, and now all that remained was this shell—a reverse chrysalis that had transformed the butterfly that once was Rainie Adler into a fractured caterpillar. How could they?_ _How dared they? Goddamned fucking asshole sons of bitches._

But they could and they dared—and right now, the caterpillar was in pain.

As he entered her room, he saw Rainie propped up on the bed, House in a chair on the far side of the room and Linda standing closest to the door. Rainie turned toward him; she looked ill, her eyes red with unbidden tears.

"Let's move her so I can look at the spine," House was saying, his eyes dark and his mouth grim.

"Do you need help?" Evan asked, not quite looking at Rainie.

House glanced up and shook his head. Together, he and Linda gently rolled the tiny figure toward Linda so that House could inspect the incision site. After lifting her nightgown, he very tenderly touched her back. She flinched and the cries increased. Evan saw her bite her lip.

"There's swelling, but I can't tell if it's simple post-op or a leak. Rainie?"

The cries slowed. "Y-yes."

"Tell me everything that's going on with you."

There was a pause as she thought about it.

"Back hurts. A lot. The headache is worse—just awful. Starts at the back of my neck. Radiates all over my head. Queasy, incredibly nauseated… my ears are ringing."

He touched his fingers to her forehead, and Evan saw a slight frown appear on the doctor's face.

House and Linda gently rolled her back down on the bed.

"It's a dural tear—spinal fluid leak. Her temp's up, so there's an infection, too. We've got to get her into the hospital right away. This can't wait."

Linda nodded.

"We'd better not drive her," she said. "It's a little too risky after back surgery."

House agreed.

"Call an ambulance. We'll take her to Princeton General and hope for the best. There's no way I'm taking her to that moron Medina."

Linda agreed, and headed for the living room as House leaned over his patient.

"Rainie, can you hear me?"

Still crying softly, she whispered, "Yes."

"We're going to get you some help. Hold tight, okay?"

"Okay," came a very quiet voice.

"What can I do?" asked Evan, feeling useless, as he often did when Rainie needed something.

"Stay here with her," said House, as he left the room to get dressed.

Five minutes later, Evan heard the distant whine of an ambulance.

"Evan?"

"Yes, punkin?"

"Get Greg. Something's really wrong." Her voice was faint.

House, who was just coming in the door of the room, hobbled to her side.

"What is it?"

"My face is numb… I'm losing sensation in my arms."

"How's the headache?"

"Worse. Much worse. And I'm dizzy."

"Ambulance is on its way. Hold on." He gripped her hands in his, as if willing her to stay conscious.

She nodded, fighting back the nausea.

"Lean forward and tell me if that helps your headache."

With an effort, she tilted her head forward, reporting that it eased the headache. Then she grabbed the emesis basin and threw up.

**D**espite objections from the EMTs, House rode with Rainie in the ambulance, trying to keep her calm. He was only partially successful. Little by little, the bright, funny, strong-willed woman he had talked to just last night gave way to a frightened, trembling child. The siren, the lights and two unfamiliar people hovering overhead stole the final vestiges of her security.

Evan followed the ambulance, while Linda stayed behind, figuring there were already too many cooks and one more would just be in the way.

By the time the gurney rolled through the doors of the Princeton General ER, Rainie's vision had blurred and she had developed double vision.

As Evan came into the waiting room a minute later, he saw House on the far side of the room, head to head with a dour-faced nurse. "Dural tear, causing a spinal fluid leak, plus the beginning of an infection," he was saying, his raspy voice carrying across the room. Evan didn't hear the response.

"Because I'm her attending."

All Evan heard was a quick rumble.

Rainie lay limply on the gurney, which was parked next to where House was leaning heavily on his walker. As an orderly passed by, Rainie flinched and Evan heard a small cry.

"PPTH," replied House, looking the nurse right in the eye.

This time Evan was close enough to hear the response.

"Then why did you bring her here?" challenged the nurse in a belligerent tone.

House paused for a moment before answering. He reached over to grasp Rainie's trembling hand. Evan saw her look up gratefully toward the side of his head.

"Because her back surgeon is on vacation, and she needs the best person in the area to look at her. With Karen Langley out of town, Frank Greco is the best in the area."

"But protocol…"

"Fuck protocol. Protocol isn't what medicine is really about. Getting the patient the best treatment possible is what medicine is about. So get her Frank Greco, and let's deal with the fallout later."

Evan noticed with relief that House's argument seemed to have convinced the nurse, who instructed an orderly to take Rainie to Exam Room 5. As Rainie was being wheeled out of the waiting room, Evan saw the look of abandonment on her face as she reached back toward the two of them.

As House started to follow, he was stopped by an arm with a clipboard. "Fill out these forms," said the nurse, thrusting the clipboard toward him.

"I'll take them," said Evan quickly, grabbing the clipboard. "You go," he said to House, shooing him toward Rainie's gurney, which was disappearing around a corner. "She needs you with her. I'll catch up when I'm done."

As House followed Rainie into Exam Room 5, he observed the medical staff closely, gauging how they reacted to his patient. Although most attempted not to show it, he caught the glances and stares as they saw Rainie's face… and his own. He braced himself to have to explain. He hated it. Hated going out in public. Hated dealing with the stares. Hated having to explain. At least at PPTH, almost everyone already knew them both.

"It's clear that Ms. Adler has suffered… some serious injuries… in the past," said the young man doing intake. He tried hard not to stare at the shuddering patient lying on the gurney. "Are these… injuries… related to the problem she's been brought here for?"

"Indirectly, yes," said House simply, hoping to avoid the inevitable.

"Could you explain the nature of the… injuries?"

Rapidly losing patience, House cut to the chase.

"Why don't you just say you're snoopy and be done with it?" he said, peevishly. "You're just dying to know, aren't you?"

"Well… I… I have to fill out the forms…" stuttered the young man, his eyes darting to Rainie's face and then back to House's.

"That's bullshit, and you know it. Okay, let's get this over with. She and I were both tortured. For years. If you've bothered to read a newspaper in the past five years, you may have heard about it." He spat out the words, hating every one of them.

The young man's eyes opened wide as the realization hit him. Holy crap. Of course he'd read about it. How could anyone miss that story? These were _those_ two people. Right here in his ER. How great was this? He found himself staring at the misshapen body and the scars that traversed the doctor's disfigured face and neck, mirrored by the ones on the woman on the gurney, and he memorized them to relay later. His buddies were going to get quite an earful over drinks once he finished his shift.

"Great," said House sarcastically, noting both of the young man's reactions—the shocked recognition followed by the smug glee—the latter making him feel revolted. "Glad to see you're not a total moron. And so pleased we've given you the high point of your day. Now that you've had your treat, let's move on to the real issue, okay?"

The young man nodded, and made a couple of notations on the intake form before leaving.

House settled himself into a chair next to Rainie's gurney. The ambulance ride and the commotion in the waiting room had shaken her badly. She was moaning in pain now, her fever was rising and she was semi-delirious.

"Sorry," she whispered, her eyes avoiding his. "Sorry. Didn't mean to cause a problem."

"You're not," replied House, "so don't worry about it."

"But I'm so sorry… I'm sorry, sir… _sorry_… didn't mean to… yes, sir… sorry… I'll be good… you don't have to punish me… sorry…"

House closed his eyes and exhaled.

Leaning over the gurney, he gently touched her face, turning it toward him.

"Look at me, Rainie. Do you know where you are? You're in the hospital."

At first, she had trouble focusing on him, but after a few seconds, recognition came back, if only for a moment.

"Sorry," she said again, not meeting his eyes.

"Don't be. It's okay."

She nodded, apparently convinced for the time being. Her eyes closed and she slipped off to a troubled sleep.

After a few more minutes, Evan joined them in the exam room. Frank Greco was on call, he said, and there was nothing they could do but wait until he got to the hospital.

"How is she?"

"Not doing very well. But if Greco's any good, and he's supposed to be, he should be able to help her."

Evan looked at Rainie shifting around on the gurney, groaning slightly whenever she moved. Every so often, her eyes would open slightly and she would mumble.

"_Sorry_…"

"What's that all about? Why does she keep saying 'sorry'?" whispered Evan after the fourth time, assuming House would understand.

"Don't know," lied House. But he did know. Thompson's rules. That goddamned contract. No matter how hard he tried, it was impossible not to violate the rules. And the result of violating them was always bad, always painful. But then, it was painful even if he didn't violate the rules…

Waves of fear washed over him as he fought his own demons down, trying to remain sane enough to function. He dropped his eyes to the floor, clenched his teeth and gripped the handle of his walker, determined not to let it show this time.

It was a long half-hour before Frank Greco finally arrived, a half-hour in which Evan watched Rainie continue to writhe and apologize, and House forcibly struggle with himself. When the doctor finally flicked open the curtain and strode into the exam room, Rainie woke with a start. As she saw the large man walk swiftly toward her, she emitted a sharp cry and pulled away, scooting along the gurney toward House.

"Sorry!" she cried, alarmed, nudging herself even closer to House, rolling right to the edge of the gurney. Another couple of inches and she'd fall off into House's lap. "Don't hurt me anymore. I won't do it again! Sorry!"

_She's completely out of her mind with terror_, thought Evan, trying not to feel overwhelmed at seeing her this way again, just as she'd started becoming more like her old self. The woman who had confronted Mafioso and corrupt politicians without batting an eye was reduced to this… this _mess_.Even in the safety of the duplex, she was skittish. Anything out of the ordinary might trigger panic attacks and flashbacks—a loud noise, someone at the door, the phone, a passing car.

House's voice snapped him out of his reverie.

"Stop! Don't move!" said House sharply to Greco, who—to his credit—froze.

House wrapped his arms around Rainie, trying to reassure her. Slowly, he eased her back toward the middle of the gurney. He whispered, "It's okay, Rainie. He's here to help you."

His own responses fascinated him—odd that when he had to reassure her, he could leave his own terror behind and do what needed to be done.

Rainie's extreme reaction startled Greco, who stood and gaped at the two battered people and the one who wasn't.

Damn, thought House. Nothing's ever easy.

"Walk slowly," warned House, scrutinizing the expression on Greco's face.

"Are you… _them_…?" Greco let the words trail off, his eyes fixed on Rainie's broken body.

_How awful,_ thought Evan. _Will they have to go through the rest of their lives like this? Rude waitresses, flustered doctors, people staring and pointing and commenting? Forever? How can anyone live this way? How can they even bring themselves to leave the house?_

"Yes, the ones from the news," said House brusquely, interrupting both Greco's halting sentence and Evan's thoughts. "Get over it. Don't you dare scare her any more than you already have. Focus, man! We're here for her back."

Greco took a deep breath and once again became a professional. He eased himself toward the gurney. She flinched at his touch, her fear palpable. After a couple of minutes, minutes in which Greco hadn't actually hurt her, her reason returned sporadically and she began to relax.

After the exam, Greco ordered a CT scan to confirm the dural tear, and then suggested a conservative treatment: ibuprofen and ingesting liquids for the fever, antibiotics for the infection, plus draining the spinal fluid and applying an epidural blood patch, followed by bed rest.

"She might improve rapidly, in which case the bed rest may not be necessary," he said. "Watch what happens with the headache. It should be better when she's lying down, but if it continues, especially when she's sitting or standing, keep her in bed until it goes away completely.

"If she doesn't show any improvement after a couple of weeks, it might be time to consider reoperation for dural repair."

By that time, Karen Langley would be back in town, thought House with relief, and she could handle it.

A few difficult hours later, after House and Evan helped Rainie get through the ordeal of the CT scan, the spinal fluid was drained and the patch inserted. Soon Rainie's head felt a little better, although the headache wasn't completely gone; her vision was no longer blurry and she had regained feeling in her face and arms. As the fever decreased, so did her apologies.

A second ambulance returned Rainie home. As the EMTs brought her back into her room, she sighed and visibly unwound.

Linda tucked her into the big, soft bed, where, exhausted, Rainie fell asleep almost immediately. For another few minutes, House sat by her bedside, watching the rise and fall of the covers as Rainie breathed. After he felt sure that she was down for the night, he pushed himself out of the chair and grabbed his walker, propelling himself toward the living room.

"How you doing, doc?" asked Linda, as he headed for the sofa. "Need anything? Pills? Massage? How's the pain?"

"I'm fine," he replied, and she knew he was lying.

She was quite sure he needed a massage rather desperately, and probably something stronger than his evening dose of Vicodin. His shoulders were hunched, and she could see the tension in his neck and the fleeting twinges of pain on his face.

But although a massage sounded ideal to House, he settled for just the pills, unwilling to let down his guard enough to allow Evan to see his vulnerability during a massage and equally unwilling to let him know just how bad the pain was.

Once Linda had halfheartedly gotten him a glass of water and his evening dose, she headed home. The night nurse wasn't due for another hour, so House and Evan had the place to themselves for a while. They sat down on the sofa with leftover beef stew _à la _Linda, and tried to unwind after the stress of the day.

"Sure she'll be okay?" mumbled a still-anxious Evan as he smooshed a soft piece of potato with his tongue.

House nodded drowsily. The thought of going to bed really was appealing, but he wouldn't sleep once he got there, so what was the point? And what made him turn down that massage? All of a sudden, as the pain flared through his body, his earlier reasoning seemed faulty.

"She's going to be okay. It was the infection that really concerned me. Couldn't wait too long to get it treated. Greco's a good doctor."

"How could something like this happen? I thought Dr. Langley was supposed to be a good doctor, too."

House rolled his eyes. Funny how people put their trust in doctors, always assuming either the best or the worst. Either the doctor ought to be able to solve every problem, or it was the doctor's fault if something went wrong. It's not that black and white, he thought. Medicine is a work in progress. We're constantly learning new things, and finding new ways to save lives. We're just doing our best.

"She _is _good. In fact, she's one of the finest in her field. Just because something went wrong doesn't mean it's the doctor's fault," he said, finally. "Sometimes things just go wrong."

Sometimes things just go wrong. Sometimes a little girl comes to the hospital when it's too late to save her. Sometimes he refuses to treat that little girl, who is going to die anyway. A little girl who just happens to have an insane father.

Evan saw the distant expression on House's face as he drifted off into his own painful memories. He'd seen that look on Rainie's face dozens of times over the last few months, as she journeyed to a place in her mind he couldn't begin to imagine… and had no desire to visit.

A few minutes later, Marina, the night nurse, opened the front door. Realizing it was time to go, Evan took his dishes to the kitchen, rinsed them out, and then grabbed his satchel and slipped out the front door, leaving House adrift on the sofa.

So much to get used to, thought Evan. Suddenly overcome with despair, he found himself desperately missing the woman he once knew and the friendship they'd once had.

Nothing would ever be that simple again.

Nothing.


	65. Chapter 65: Asking for Advice

Asking for Advice…

"**M**ay I ask a rude question?"

The early autumn days were still insanely hot and miserably sticky, although the nights were finally starting to cool down, if only by ten degrees or so, and House had convinced Rainie to join him in the backyard. They lay stretched out on parallel _chaises longue_, languidly staring at the early evening sky.

"What makes you think I'm the kind of a guy who would tolerate rudeness?"

She smiled.

"I don't know. Something I heard once about your reputation. Seems to me someone told me you were pretty rude yourself."

"I'm shocked, Miss Jones, that you would assail my virtue in such a way. How's the head?"

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not. I'm embellishing the old one."

"Head's the same. Getting tired of it. Think I'll trade it in for a newer model. What do you think? Would I look good as a 20-year-old blonde?"

_You look fine right now_, he started to say, and then stopped himself. How trite did that sound? And would she even believe it? But the truth was, he realized, that she did look fine to him, and he found the idea a tad disconcerting. He'd always placed far too much value on physical beauty—perhaps because it seemed unattainable and therefore was a challenge… or perhaps because the inevitable rejection was somehow easier to take, especially after the leg injury.

When he looked at Rainie, he saw right through the outward damage, as if her disfigured body and face had simply faded away. He could see the person underneath—the person who was witty, feisty and clever, all traits he valued, and who had a highly developed sense of personal integrity—a trait he valued even more. So what he saw, even if the rest of the world saw something else, was a very attractive woman.

"Who needs 20-year-olds? They're stupid and arrogant. Plus, blondeness is overrated. Answer the question. How's the head?"

She frowned.

"About the same. Still feels better when I'm lying down… which at the moment I seem to be doing. Quit being a doctor."

He ignored the last part.

"So what's your question?"

She turned her head toward him and smiled a moment before answering.

"Who pays Linda?"

Startled, House paused a moment before answering.

"I'm not sure I'd call that a rude question—just an unexpected one."

"I was pretty sure it was rude. Silly me. Should I try again? I can make it a lot ruder. I know a lot of bad words. Learned `em at my mother's knee."

This time he was the one who smiled.

"Maybe after awhile. I'd like to learn some new words, although I'll bet you don't know any that I hadn't heard long before you and your mother's knee got acquainted. What brought this on?"

"Let's deal with the back-story later. First, just answer my question. Who pays Linda?"

"I pay her. Why do you want to know?"

She looked away and scrunched up her face in annoyance.

"Because I do. Isn't that good enough?"

"No. There's something going on in your head—I can literally see the wheels turning—and I want to know what it is."

She looked at him sharply.

"Oh, so it's okay for you to be curious and insist on answers, but not for me?"

He sighed.

"Uncle. Let's start this over again. I pay Linda. Wilson used to, but now I do. I gather there are other questions. Go for it."

"Who owns this place?"

"I own this half. Wilson owns the other."

"And who bought your car?"

"Wilson did. Then I bought it from him."

"Groceries. Did Wilson buy them?"

"For a while, yes."

Now he really was curious. He looked into her hazel eyes, trying to see the mind behind them, to decipher what was triggering these odd questions.

"Why did Wilson pay for these things before?"

"Because someone had to. What's really going on here?"

"Where did you get the money?" Then she hit him with the big one. "And why are you paying for me?"

"Part of it I earn," he said, answering the first question. Then onto the second. He caught a glimpse of where this was going. "Same reason Wilson did. Because someone had to."

"And the part you don't earn?"

House sighed again. She was going to drag this out.

"Settlement. A large—_large_—settlement. A _very _large, _large_ settlement. Two of them, in fact. One from the state of New Jersey and the other from Thompson's estate."

She winced slightly on hearing Thompson's name.

"Plus medical?"

"Plus medical."

"Interesting," she said.

"Not particularly," he replied. "Done?"

"Not yet. When can I start paying my way?"

_Ah. It's just occurred to her that she's being carried, and she doesn't like it. Can't blame her. Wasn't too fond of it myself, once I got well enough to realize what was going on._

"The paperwork's in for the settlements. You may have to go to a hearing, but possibly not. I didn't. The state was afraid of more bad publicity over the whole wrongful imprisonment thing, and Thompson's family seemed pretty willing to toss money at me."

"And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime, I'll handle it."

"Why? Why should you do that?"

He turned his face toward her.

"Look, Rainie. I knew going into this what to expect. I knew you had no money, no belongings, no health insurance, no food, no shelter, no clothes and no means of attaining those things. I also knew that eventually you were probably going to receive a very large settlement and when that happened, you'd be set for life."

"You still haven't answered my question. Why should you do that?"

"Because someone had to."

She lifted her chin defiantly and her eyes narrowed as she stared at him, compelling him to finish the thought.

"…And because I wanted to," he added under his breath.

Because Wilson had done it for him. Because it seemed right, and because it certainly hadn't put a dent into his own financial resources. Because it needed to be done so he did it. Those were all the reasons he told himself. But the reality of the actual _why_ was something he didn't care to explore. Guilt. Remorse. Fear. Resentment. And now he found, to his surprise, that it meant something to pay for her. Now he wanted to. Because he'd gotten to know her. Because he'd come to care for her. Because she was Rainie Adler.

And Rainie Adler was having no part of it. Her oddly scarred eyebrow inched up even higher then usual, and her stare morphed into a glare as she set her jaw.

"I'm paying you back."

It was a declaration of independence.

"Not necessary."

"Yes, it is. I refuse to be beholden to you or anyone else."

"Your choice. But still not necessary." God, she was stubborn.

"Don't care. I'm paying you back. I won't be on anything less than equal footing with you."

"If you insist."

"I do. One more question."

"Shoot."

"What happened to all my stuff?"

A gut-punch hit him. Lifers didn't have stuff. Everything they'd ever owned, everything they'd ever enjoyed or cared about was long gone. Decades of accumulating things that mattered—pictures, letters from loved ones, music, clothes, birthday cards, knick-knacks, small comforts—were gone in a poof of smoke, wiping out history, wiping out personality, wiping out the life that was.

Slowly, a sorrowful, wistful smile drifted over House's face as he remembered the moment Cuddy showed him his new office, appointed with his familiar things, lovingly preserved by Wilson. Then the smile dissipated. Rainie wasn't going to have such a moment. The belongings of her lifetime—the treasures, the outward trappings of her personality—were all gone. Unless… unless Evan had managed to save something from her desk or her home. He'd have to ask. Preferably sometime when Rainie wasn't around.

Seeing the strong emotions on House's face, Rainie tensed, bracing herself for the answer.

"All gone. Sold, I'm afraid. You're going to have to start over."

She recoiled physically, as if the same gut-punch he'd just felt had hit her. He thought she was going to be sick. Finally, she pulled herself together.

"As a charity case? I think not."

Somehow she managed to look sad, anxious and resentful all at the same time. Those wheels were still turning.

He stared into her eyes and spoke bluntly, although his voice was sympathetically soft and low.

"What choice do you have, Rainie?" he asked, reaching out his hand toward hers. "For the time being, what choice do you have?"

She turned her face away from his and said nothing.

**T**he piece of paper lay partially folded on the coffee table, a tempting invitation for the next inquisitive person. For several days, it shifted around on the table as if someone kept picking it up, reading it and then setting it back down in a different place. Finally, Rainie picked it up, read it and put it in her pocket.

**E**van Schuster was astounded. As a journalist, he thought he was unflappable, but he was unprepared for this.

It had started when he'd gotten to Rainie's place an hour earlier. Wavering on her crutches, she had actually opened the door for him when he rang the bell, clearly pleased with herself that she could do it. She was now about a month out from reoperation on her back to fix the dural tear, and Karen Langley said she was doing very well. He noticed that she was dressed, wearing makeup and jewelry, all of which made her look a little more like her old self. Or perhaps he was just getting used to the changes.

What was obvious is that the light in her eyes was beginning to return. He couldn't begin to imagine what she'd been through, and frankly, he wouldn't have been too surprised if she had never regained even a glimmer of the woman she once was, but to see her smile, however tentatively, encouraged him.

"Hey, punkin. How goes it?" he asked, pausing a moment to give her time to prepare before slowly leaning forward to kiss her cheek. It took a fair amount of self-control for him not to let her see how affected he was by the damage done to her.

If what he saw on her face and hands was indicative, he could barely imagine what the rest of her body looked like. He'd never admit it, but it pained him just to look at her. Several times after visiting he'd driven home in tears, pulling over to the side of the road because his sobs were interfering with his ability to drive.

"Ça va," she replied. "It goes."

Before he arrived, Linda had arranged a carafe of coffee, cups, cream, sugar, muffins, plates and napkins on a tray that now resided on the coffee table.

"Want some coffee?" he asked.

"Sure," she replied. "A little."

Evan started to reach for one of the cups, but Rainie stopped him.

"No," she said. "Linda! Where's my cup?"

Linda ran in from the kitchen carrying a travel mug.

"Sorry, Rainie. Got sidetracked by the doc's breakfast. You know what an old fussbudget he can be."

"No problem. Thanks." She handed the mug to Evan. "Better use this one. I'll just make a mess otherwise."

As she handed him the mug, he saw that her hand shook. Why didn't I notice that before, he wondered.

"So what's on tap this week?" he asked, casually, as he filled her mug, adding some cream and the contents of a pink packet before snapping on the top.

"Frankly, my dear, I'm getting bored," she said, taking the mug from him in a wobbly way.

She'd been thinking about this for a while, and even more so since finding out Greg was paying all her bills. Sooner or later, she had to figure out what to do with the rest of her life, now that she'd made up her mind there was going to be a rest of her life. From childhood on, she'd always been an overachiever, and a life of leisure didn't suit her. Somehow, she had to make some money. It was outrageous and unacceptable that Greg House was paying her way.

Not only that, but with no project on her agenda, she had nothing to do but think—think about what had happened to her, about her lost life, about Jeff and Evie, about her pain, about therapy, about Greg. No, it was time to find a way to move forward.

"Bored? Really?" He wasn't sure how to respond to this, but incredulity seemed as good a response as any.

"Yup. You wouldn't think it, what with all the exciting things I get to do every day, but yes, I'm bored."

He took a sip of his coffee, which, he noted, was remarkably good. He didn't quite look at Rainie when he replied.

"So… whatcha got in mind?"

Rainie took a deep breath.

She was so tentative about this, he thought, and that was new, too. Rainie Adler had always been quirky and eccentric, and over time had learned to project an unselfconscious confidence that belied her deep-set insecurities. That seeming confidence, plus the fact that intelligence bristled through every word, might be why many people were put off by her. Evan, on the other hand, had found her refreshing. Now… well, now… she was different in so many ways.

"I was kind of wondering if you thought…"

Her voice drifted off. This was harder than she expected. She'd always been fairly forthright about things, but this was tantamount to begging, and she'd never been good at begging. Go for it, she thought. The worst anyone can say is no.

"Okay, here it is. I'd like to see if I can work again. Do you think the _Times_ might hire me part time, maybe as an editor, or freelance? Something I could do from here—I'm certainly not in any shape to commute… and I don't think I could handle going into the newsroom right now…"

No, I don't think that would work well, agreed Evan, silently. But working from home might be a possibility. He'd have to check with the powers that be.

"Let me look into it."

And now, the bombshell.

"Uh, Evan… there's something else I want to talk to you about…"

Her voice drifted off again…

_What? What was it? Was she all right? Must be, or she wouldn't be considering going back to work. Come on, sweetheart, speak to me._

After an interminable pause, she spoke.

"Evan, I could really use your advice."

"Any time, punkin. Any time."

"Well, here's the deal… oh, hell!"

She gritted her teeth before continuing.

"God damn it. This is so embarrassing, but okay, I'll just spit it out. It's just so pathetic. I think I'm in love… I know I am…"

"With…?"

She looked at him, disgusted with herself.

"Who do you think? I haven't exactly been around a whole lot of people lately, and most of the ones I see are female, except you, and you're not exactly available to a straight woman."

He ran down the list of the choices in his head. Was she in love with him? No—she'd already said it wasn't him, and besides, they'd settled that long ago, when he'd moved in with his first partner. That physical therapist? The night nurse, Max? Ajunta? He couldn't see it. Wilson? He hadn't noticed any special bond between them. That left only one possibility.

"Not H-House?"

She nodded.

"Nailed it in one."

Holy shit. That was unexpected. Somehow it had never dawned on him that anyone as broken as either of these people could entertain the notion of falling in love. But why shouldn't they? Just because they were shattered physically and devastated emotionally didn't make them immune to human feelings. But now, hold on—was she heading for a fall? Could this be just a reaction or a crush? Patient falling for doctor? The old Rainie was levelheaded, but with everything that had happened, maybe her emotions weren't all that stable.

"And… _ummm_… does he know how you feel?"

She nodded again, keeping her eyes down. "Oh, yes. And here's the kicker. He says he's got feelings for me, too."

Now _that _was a stunner. He had to think about this for a minute. Being in love should be good news, but Rainie didn't seem so sure. Well, he was a reporter. Better ask some more questions.

"So, how come you're so reserved about this? Isn't falling in love a good thing?"

She shrugged.

"Usually, I guess so. But this is so damn tricky, Evan. I really need to bounce this off someone, and you're the only someone I've got."

"Okay. Bounce away."

"Let's start with what I've been through. Any time someone is even civil to me, I'm so grateful, it's pathetic. So here's my doctor—my _doctor_, Evan!—who has been more than civil, and who I know really understands everything I'm feeling. He's close by, he's compassionate, he's tender and he's protective. Is what I'm feeling real or is it just gratitude magnified?"

He was beginning to see her point. This was tricky.

"Got it. What else?"

"Well, there's the whole doctor-patient thing. He's really struggling with the ethical issues. I looked up the AMA Code of Ethics. Article 1.1-h says, 'Make sure that you do not exploit your patient for any reason,' followed by 1.1-j: 'Avoid engaging in sexual activity with your patient.'"

"And… well… has there been… sexual activity?" he asked, not really sure he wanted to know the answer. He thought back a few weeks, when he found that Rainie and House were sharing a bed in the hospital. Suddenly he realized that the undercurrents he had wondered about were actually there.

"Not really," she replied, to his relief. "A grand total of two kisses. I personally don't think he's exploiting me, but then, I've spent the last three years rotting in prison, so what do I know? He's afraid that by simply expressing his feelings he's somehow taken advantage of my… shall we call it my weakened state?"

He looked at her, and realized there wasn't much he could say.

"What do you want from me, Rainie? You want me to try to tell you what you should do, or not do?"

Sighing, she shook her head.

"No, not really. I just needed to say it aloud, I guess. You know me—I always need to talk things out—it's like my brain won't start working unless my mouth is engaged. I guess I need to figure this out for myself. Thanks for listening, and letting me get it out. And mostly, for not being repulsed."

"Any time. You know I'm here." I'm confused, he thought, but I'm here.

**D**evi arrived early, got herself a cup of Darjeeling tea and sat alone in the conference room, waiting for the uneven sound of a walker headed her way down the hall. At 9:20, she heard it.

Then she heard the soft ratchet of a key in the door to House's office, and the thud of his backpack as it landed on the carpet. She hadn't seen her boss much in weeks, not since shortly after that awful night in the emergency room, when his bloody body was brought in by ambulance. Once or twice, she'd visited him in room 304, but he'd been groggy from the drugs, and it was far too disturbing to see him in that condition, so she and Foreman decided to give him space and let Chase be the intermediary.

"Anybody home?" came the voice from next door.

"Just me. Devi," she called out.

"Where are the other two slackers?" asked the voice.

"Not due in for a few more minutes. They should be here shortly."

During the course of the day, Devi watched House surreptitiously, reassuring herself that he was okay. And he was. Certainly he was better off than he'd been when she first met him. Still too thin, clearly frail, but he was mentally alert and much more than functional.

He made it through until about three, when Wilson found him asleep at his desk and decided it was time to drive him home.


	66. Chapter 66: Blackmail

Blackmail…

**T**he newsroom was abuzz. Rainie Adler was coming into work. For people who make their living based on their overriding curiosity, this was the equivalent of an investigative scoop.

Evan had talked to the powers that be. They were willing to consider hiring Rainie back in some capacity, but insisted on meeting her face to face. He tried to convince them to come to Princeton, to see her in the safety of her own home, but—bureaucrats that they were—they weren't willing to bend that far. So the mountain had to come to Mohammed. And Evan Schuster wasn't happy about it.

He briefed the newsroom staff on what to expect, warned them not to make any sudden moves or speak too loudly, and pleaded with everyone to allow her some privacy and some dignity as she came through the newsroom to the offices on the far side. He'd also met with security, arranging to bring her in through the back of the building and up the freight elevator. Now all he could do was hope she'd be okay.

The two of them decided it would be easier on her if she used her wheelchair rather than crutches or walker. He picked her up around 11 on the Tuesday morning, helping her into the passenger seat and stowing the wheelchair in the back seat.

They didn't talk much on the way into the city. Once through the Lincoln Tunnel, Evan headed over a couple of blocks to the _Times_, pulling up to the back of the building. Using his cell, he called security and waited. Five minutes later, one of the guards slipped out the back and came toward the car.

"All set?" asked Evan, feeling almost as if he were in a spy movie. He glanced over at Rainie and noticed how badly her hands were shaking. She nodded.

He helped her into the wheelchair and rolled her toward the elevator bank. So far so good.

Once the elevator opened on the third floor, he pushed her out.

"Here we go," he whispered in her ear as he headed toward the newsroom.

Despite Evan's attempts at preparation, her appearance caused a minor commotion. Rainie saw the sidelong glances and heard the mumbles. She kept her head down and tried to control her nerves.

When they got about 15 feet from the office, she felt a shadow cross her face, heard a loud voice and saw a hand coming at her far too quickly.

"Hey, Rainie! It's good to see you back!"

It was Karl Peddersen, a big, jovial man who was obviously attempting to behave normally around her. What he did instead was frighten her. Badly.

Involuntarily, she screamed, crouching down in the chair and covering her head with her arms.

At the sound of her screams, every head turned and Evan's fears were realized: Rainie Adler was now the absolute center of attention.

A couple of well-intentioned reporters ran toward the sound, meaning to help. Evan saw them coming, and yelled, "Stop! Don't move! Any of you. Just stay where you are." They froze.

He bent over to try to calm Rainie down, placing his hand on her right arm. She flinched, jerking away from his touch and emitting a small, terrified noise.

Then he kneeled next to her and waited. After a moment he tried touching her again, but it was too soon, and he frightened her all over again, eliciting a small scream.

Looking up, he saw Howard Guberman and a couple of other editors standing in the doorway of the conference room where they were supposed to meet.

"I told you this was a bad idea," he said, angrily. "I told you."

Not known for his sensitivity, Guberman just looked at the scenario in front of him.

"If she can't handle coming in here, then she doesn't have what it takes to work for the _Times_," he said brusquely, turning around and heading toward his office.

Evan was sick with anger. Standing, he turned Rainie's chair around and headed back toward the elevators. She was still shaking and whimpering.

A few sympathetic faces caught his eye as he went back through the newsroom.

Rainie didn't say a word after they left the _Times_, and she was silent and withdrawn all the way back to Princeton.

Later, when he got home, Evan would find a very apologetic email from Karl Peddersen.

But it was too late.

When House opened the front door late that afternoon, he knew immediately that it hadn't gone well. Rainie was tucked into the far corner of the couch, nearly covered by a large blanket. Shivering, she barely looked up as he came into the room. Her eyes were red from crying.

"At least you tried," he said, finally, feeling helpless and stupid.

"Worthless," was all she said. Then she said it again, her voice husky with emotion. "Worthless."

Linda appeared at the entrance to the kitchen. He looked up at her, and she shook her head.

He sat down on the opposite end of the couch and waited as Rainie continued to shiver, the occasional tear rolling down her cheek.

After about five minutes, she shifted her position, lowering the blanket slightly. Gauging his movements carefully, he slowly slid toward her. When she didn't react, he inched up next to her, and cautiously encircled her with his right arm.

With a shudder, she buried her head on his chest and let go.

**T**he next time Evan visited, a couple days after the newsroom debacle, House met him at the front door.

"What exactly happened?" he asked urgently, his voice low. "Rainie's getting ready. Talk fast."

"They were idiots," said Evan, still seething over the way she'd been treated. "Wouldn't even consider it unless they saw her in person. Then, when she had a meltdown, they brushed her off as if she were some crazy they didn't even know, as if she hadn't been wounded in the line of duty."

House looked at him sharply. Evan could almost see him deliberating, trying to come up with a way out.

"Who's their legal counsel?" he asked, unexpectedly.

"Why? What are you thinking?"

"A.D.A.," he said without elaborating.

Interesting mind he's got, thought Evan. Very interesting mind.

"She's not going to go for this, you know," said Evan. "There's no way she'll play the disability card."

"Not if she knows about it, no," agreed House. "But does she have to know? Couldn't it be that someone else—perhaps in another department—sees value in having her work for them? Someone in that building has to be able to see beyond her damage to the talent underneath."

After all, someone—Cuddy—had been willing to give him that kind of a chance when he needed it so desperately.

Evan smiled through gritted teeth.

"We could do that," he said, nodding. "If it doesn't work out, she wouldn't have to know about it."

"Get me a name," said House. "I'll make the call from work."

The next day, House sent his team off to run some labs while he locked himself in his office.

He dialed the number Evan had provided. After speaking briefly with an assistant, he was transferred to one of the _Times_' attorneys. For what he had in mind, it really wouldn't matter if the lawyer recognized his name or not.

"Good morning," he said. "I'm Greg House. I'm Maureen Adler's doctor, and I need to talk to you about a violation of the Americans With Disabilities Act."

For a moment, there was nothing on the other end. Then, in that confrontive way New York attorneys had, he heard, simply, "What makes you think there's been a violation?"

In the simplest terms, House explained how forcing someone in Rainie's condition to endure a face-to-face interview in a crowded newsroom and then dismissing her before the interview even took place was, in fact, a pretty blatant violation of the A.D.A.

"In addition, I suspect that, should she care to pursue it, Ms. Adler would have an excellent case for a violation of the worker's comp laws, since she was injured as a direct result of conducting her duties at the _Times_."

He knew he had the attorney's attention.

"Now, you really don't want that to happen, because you know how this will turn out. She's going to win these cases, easily. And if this information becomes public, you're going to have some of the worst PR you've ever seen. How is it going to look when it becomes known that my patient was tortured and nearly killed because of working for you, and has now been denied the chance to return to her job?"

He dropped his voice, adding a threat.

"And, somehow, I have a feeling it will become known."

Pause.

"I'll look into it," said the attorney.

"I'm sure you will," said House. "I'll expect to hear from you by three this afternoon."


	67. Chapter 67: Suspicion

Suspicion…

**T**hree days later, when he got home from work, he found a very suspicious Rainie Adler waiting for him.

"The _Times_ called," she said, eying him. "Arts & Leisure. They wanted to know if I might be available to do occasional writing and editing for them. From home. No one-on-one interviews. No visits to New York."

"Sounds good," said House, perusing the mail as if he weren't paying much attention.

She looked at him sharply, scanning his face for clues.

He glanced up, not really looking at her, trying to paste a blank expression on his face.

"And…?"

"I said I'd think about it."

He tossed the mail onto the coffee table, and dropped down exhausted onto the couch, leaving his walker within reach. Picking up the television remote, he started surfing.

"Did you? Think about it?"

"Uh-huh," she said, apparently finding what she was searching for on his face. "Thought about it all afternoon. You think you're pretty tricky, don't you?"

"Me?" he asked, his blue eyes opening wide.

"Come on, Greg. You don't really think I'm that stupid, do you? Five days after I'm unceremoniously ejected from the newsroom, suddenly, after all these years, the _Times_ wants to hire me? It was either you or Evan, but I'm betting on you. Evan might yell at someone, but he's not really all that devious. You, on the other hand, are."

He couldn't quite meet her gaze.

"What makes you think it isn't a coincidence?" he asked, hoping he hadn't screwed things up.

"Because I distrust coincidence," she said. "And I distrust you. But I trust my instincts."

He stared at the television.

"So, how did you work it? I can't imagine the _Times_ being embarrassed into offering me a job."

He said nothing. If he said nothing, she couldn't pin it on him.

"Come on. Spill it."

"Tell me what you've decided to do," he countered.

"I don't want a pity job," she said.

Shit, he thought. No, she wouldn't. But he noticed that her mood had improved since this morning.

"You're talented. Why wouldn't they want to use that talent?"

She rubbed her tongue across her front teeth as she decided how to respond.

"They ought to want to. But they didn't," she said.

"Different department," he said. "One jerk in a different department."

"Pity job."

"Not if you're as good as I know you are. Anyone who turns down talent like yours is brainless. It's only a pity job if you can't do the work. It's only a pity job if they don't need you. Face it. With your talent, they need you."

He knew all about that. When he'd returned to PPTH a year and a half ago, he hadn't been able to see far enough past his own damage to realize they needed him at least as much as he needed them.

She sat quietly, fidgeting for a moment.

"So… how'd you do it?"

"Are you taking the job?"

"Maybe. Probably. Yes."

"A.D.A. plus worker's comp with a side order of public humiliation," he said, finally.

At least she knew her journalistic instincts were still intact. Now, if she just had enough stamina to do the job.


	68. Chapter 68: Evil

Evil…

**A**t their next session, Jacey Liu brought up the topic of evil. Both House and Rainie looked startled and uncomfortable.

Strange response, thought Jacey.

At the session after that, on the seat of her chair, Jacey found an envelope with her name on it. In it was an essay titled "A Question of Evil," which appeared to be the introduction to a book or article. As her two charges got settled, she read the essay to herself, unsure which one of them wrote it.

"We were talking about evil," she began, holding the piece of paper. "And I find that one of you has left me a gift on the topic."

She looked from House to Rainie and back again. Neither reacted.

"Come on. You clearly wanted to talk about this. I assume it's easier to write about in the abstract like this than to discuss in person."

"Yes, it is," said Rainie finally, owning up.

House looked at her, but Jacey couldn't read his expression.

"So what's up? What prodded you to write this?"

Rainie looked thoughtful for a moment before replying.

"The easy answer is that I needed to know if I could still do my job, if I could still write. The more difficult answer has to do with what I wrote about. I've been thinking about this for months. How could one person, abetted by numerous others, inflict intentional, painful, personal, irreparable damage on another—or, as in our case, on two others?"

Jacey looked at House, who clenched his jaw and began shifting nervously over at his end of the couch.

"Greg? Have you read Rainie's essay?"

He said nothing for a moment. Finally, he nodded curtly.

"Many times," he said, finally.

After observing how the paper had moved from place to place on the coffee table over those several days, Rainie wasn't totally surprised. She was, however, surprised that he admitted it.

"Tell me what you're thinking," said Jacey, still unable to read his expression.

He looked in Rainie's general direction, although he avoided looking right at her.

"You're braver than I am," he said, unexpectedly, after a long pause.

Rainie was taken aback. Given how similar their experiences were, how could he compare her level of bravery with his?

"That's nonsense," she said. "And, besides, it's not exactly a competition."

"It could be," he said, attempting to change the subject. "We could have prizes."

He got a hint of a smile from Rainie and nothing from Jacey. Realizing he'd have to get back to the topic eventually and deciding it might as well be now, he spoke more seriously, thinking it through cautiously: "If I'm honest, I'd have to admit we both found bravery that we never would have recognized in ourselves if it weren't for Thompson. But that's not the kind of bravery I'm talking about.

"What I mean is that by writing this essay—and, apparently, contemplating writing a book on the subject—you have been more willing than I have to confront our mutual past head on, to consider it, examine it and try to give it meaning for you, personally. I couldn't have done what you did. It took a kind of bravery I don't think I have."

Rainie looked startled. She rejected his analysis. "That's ridiculous. And it's not true," she said. "I think you've done exactly the same thing I did, but you did it in your own way—and, in fact, much more directly than I did."

"What on earth makes you think that?" Flabbergasted, he really couldn't imagine how she'd come to that conclusion. He hadn't written anything, he'd tried to avoid talking about what happened and he'd been dreading these therapy sessions because he didn't want to deal with the pain of looking at the past.

She smiled in a Cheshire cat way, as if she knew a secret that he didn't.

"Listen to me, Greg. I'm sure I'm right."

He shook his head and started to argue, but she kept talking.

"Give me a minute here, okay? Why did you take on my case, when it would have been so much easier for you to avoid me?"

"Because of my specialized knowledge…" he began.

She shushed him.

"Hssst! You and your 'specialized knowledge'—that's elephant crap and you know it. Your specialized knowledge didn't make you want to take this case—if anything, it should have made you run screaming from it."

That got a rise out of him.

"_Because_ of my specialized knowledge," he repeated emphatically, "I knew how to treat you medically."

"Maybe so, but I still say it's crap. You could have consulted. You could have been a member of the team. What made you insist on being in charge of my case? You're not exactly known to your colleagues as someone who is terribly sensitive to patients, and yet you intentionally took on the one case that would force you into a very sensitive situation, and also force you to deal with your own emotions."

"Not true," said House, getting defensive. "I figured I'd get Jacey to do all the heavy emotional lifting, and I'd kick back and avoid my underlings for a while."

Jacey just smiled, watching them volley back and forth.

"Rubbish," said Rainie, still smiling that Cheshire cat smile and refusing to let him get away with it. "I know all about your meticulously cultivated reputation. You're Dr. Greg House, the misanthrope who doesn't get along with anyone, who, God forbid, should let anyone get close to him emotionally. And yet, your former patients told me they saw a different Dr. House. They saw someone who was empathetic and compassionate. Uh-uh! Don't you dare make that face at me! It's true, and you know it."

_How does she do it? She can see right through me_, he thought, acutely uncomfortable as he fidgeted under her magnifying glass.

While he was reacting to what she'd said, Rainie went on.

"Don't forget I interviewed a lot of people to get to the point where Thompson figured out what I was doing. Even before we met, I knew you pretty well, so don't think you can play those games with me.

"Look, I'm your patient, too, and from the very first, you were that other Dr. House with me. In fact, you were that Dr. House in spades. From the beginning, you stayed with me, held me, comforted me, stood up for me…"

She hesitated before continuing, but pushed on, even though she was nervous about saying it in front of him.

"…and cared about me."

He dropped his head and stared at the floor.

"Greg, listen to me. If you didn't know it already, I'm telling you now. You gave me a reason to go on. You did. Not Jacey—no offense, Jacey. Not the nurses, or the team. You. You opened up to me… It was hard for you, but you did it anyway. You cared about me… and you loved me."

That did it. He glanced up, warily, and their eyes met for just an instant, an instant in which he felt the all the air knocked out of his lungs as his heart outraced the cars in the Indianapolis 500. Rainie's face flushed red and her breath caught for just a moment before she looked away.

Jacey didn't miss the exchange of looks. Good lord, she thought. I hadn't realized that this attraction between them was so extraordinarily intense. No wonder they're both having trouble dealing with it.

Once she recovered her poise, Rainie went on in a controlled tone of voice.

"The reality is, Greg, you didn't have to take my case. It was diagnostically boring."

A cynical snort escaped him. She challenged him, her quirky, scarred eyebrow raised and a hint of grin dancing around her mouth.

"So why did you do it? Why did you take me on? Wasn't it because you knew that if you could help me, it might help you? That by confronting our past together, by helping me, maybe you could find meaning in something that had no reason?"

After an extremely long pause, House nodded slightly, refusing to risk making eye contact again.

"Well, I don't know if you've found the meaning you were looking for, but you need to know how much you've helped me. By surviving Thompson yourself and then choosing to help me, you've brought me back to life. If you hadn't been there—if I'd had anyone else, anyone who hadn't been through it—I-I don't know where I'd be now…"

As she fought back tears, her voice got so quiet he could barely hear her. "I don't think I'd have made it, Greg. I really don't. I wanted to die so desperately, I just prayed for it. I couldn't think of anything else. But as long as my… Evie… _oh!_"

She bit her lip fiercely, and threw her head back on the couch, trying not to sob.

Shaken, his own eyes filling with tears, House leaned toward her and held her two hands in his, much as he'd done that first day.

Swallowing hard and taking a few deep breaths, she tried again.

"As long as Evie was alive, I had to go on. Then… _after_… I… I wanted to just slip away, just end it. You don't know how many times I lay in that hospital bed willing myself to die, dreaming of it, pining for it… anything to get away from the pain in my heart, in my body, in my soul…"

She swallowed again, blinking away a few more tears.

"But you were there. You were always there, supporting me. And then, when you weren't… when Pevey… I realized I had to stay until I knew you were okay. You had already come to mean so much to me, I couldn't leave not know what had happened to you."

As he listened, House felt his chest tighten. He couldn't catch a breath, his eyes stung, and he could feel his whole body start to shake with repressed emotion. Here she was saying back to him what he'd been feeling about her. He _knew_ he'd had something left to do. He knew he couldn't leave yet. And now he knew why.

Caught up in her own emotional storm, Rainie looked over at him, but he wouldn't meet her eye.

"I think I know how hard this has been for you… and yet, you held me, you opened up to me, you were there… you gave me reasons to stay… oh, Greg! I can't even say thank you for what you've done. It's not enough… you saved me… you saved me…"

She pulled away from him, and shook her head, wiping the tears away with her ungainly fingers, sniffling and gulping for air. Jacey handed her a tissue, and then another.

Afraid his voice would betray him, House remained silent, but leaned in again toward Rainie. She rested her head on his arm, her tears dampening his shirt and her trembles reverberating through him. He drew her closer, wrapping his left arm around her until she was able to gain control again.

Finally, after a few deep breaths, she pulled back and went on.

"So what makes you think what I did was so brave? The only difference between what you did and what I did is our professions. You did it medically; I did it journalistically. And in my mind, what you did was braver. I can sit in my safe little room and write when I feel like it. You had to deal with yourself and with me all the time. And, for whatever it's worth, I couldn't have written anything if you hadn't been there for me first."

All three sat silently for a couple of minutes. Both House and Rainie were completely overwhelmed by the emotions of the past few moments.

One of Jacey's greatest skills was the ability to allow her patients time—time to think, time to feel and time to recover.

Finally, she felt enough time had passed.

"I'm not going to force you," she said, "but eventually, together, we're going to keep exploring what actually happened to you both. We'll ease into it, but we will get there. And then we'll work our way back out again."

Rainie exhaled.

"I don't think I'm quite ready to go too much further today, but I did find a quotation that… well, let me read it," she said, pulling a slip of paper out of her pocket. From where he sat, House could see large, shaky, uneven handwriting.

They listened as she spoke, her clear contralto voice enunciating each word distinctly.

"It's from Lady Montagu in 1750, who wrote it in a letter to her daughter. 'Strictly speaking, there is but one real evil: I mean acute pain. All other complaints are so considerably diminished by time that it is plain the grief is owing to our passion, since the sensation of it vanishes when that is over.'"

House's throat closed up. Acute pain. The constant, tangible reminder to both of them of evil in their lives. It was there, it would always be there, and as a result, neither of them would ever be able to escape the evil that had been inflicted upon them.

"Rainie," said Jacey, after a moment. "I want you to do me a favor."

"What…?" asked Rainie, hesitantly. She had a gut feeling she wasn't going to like whatever it was. "What?"

"I want you to read this aloud." She handed Rainie the essay.

Rainie's throat went dry. She couldn't swallow, and she could feel her hands shaking as she reached over for the piece of paper.

"B-but why?"

"I'll tell you after," was all Jacey would say.

I don't think I can do this, thought Rainie. I need my reading glasses and something to drink.

"I-I… my glasses," she stuttered. "I have to get my glasses."

"I'm sure Linda will do it. Linda?!"

Linda wandered out from the back of the apartment.

"Could you grab Rainie's reading glasses from her room?"

"Sure thing, Dr. Liu."

"…and some water?" added Rainie, hoping her voice didn't sound as shaky as it felt.

Once she wore her glasses and had sipped her water, Rainie realized there was no way out. House didn't seem any more pleased with the idea of listening than she did with the idea of reading. But Jacey was determined. Rainie's stomach hurt.

Slowly, she read her own words aloud,1 holding the paper in her lap and not looking up. When she had composed them, she'd been able to keep her feelings at a distance, to write in a detached state of mind, but somehow reading aloud made everything more real. A few times, she had to stop because she found she was flooded with emotion.

"'…It's the ultimate mystery, isn't it? What is evil? How does it develop? How does it flourish? How can one face evil and survive?

"'I don't have the answers, but I propose to ask the questions.

"'Should you ever run into evil face to face, I hope you will be heartened to know that someone, somewhere, somehow has faced the worst that evil can dish up, and has endured.'"

As she read the last word, her voice cracked. She cleared her throat, pretending her mouth was dry, not that she had been affected by her own writing.

After she got to the end, she sat still, not moving and barely breathing. Her heart was pounding and she could feel tears forcing themselves from behind her eyes. Afraid to look at House, she finally peered over at Jacey and saw the psychiatrist looking back at her. When Jacey looked at House, Rainie involuntarily followed her gaze.

House was staring fixedly at a spot on one of the bookcases. His eyes were rimmed in red, as if he, too, were fighting back tears.

"The ultimate mystery," he said, almost as if he were thinking aloud and hadn't intended for anyone to hear him.

No one said anything for a couple of minutes. Finally, Jacey broke the silence.

"Have you figured out why I wanted you to read it aloud?" she asked.

Rainie nodded. It was pretty obvious, wasn't it? By saying her own words aloud, they had gone from the abstract to the real. For both the reader and the listener, the words had made a direct connection to their harrowing experiences.

1 .


	69. Chapter 69: Dealing With It

Dealing With It…

**PRINCETON **(AP) — Former _New York Times_ reporter Maureen Adler, who spent three years in the West Jersey State Correctional Institution For Women after being convicted of murdering her husband, has been awarded a $15.5 million settlement from the state of New Jersey for wrongful imprisonment and abusive treatment at the hands of prison officials.

This follows a $25 million settlement awarded earlier in the day from the estate of the late businessman Robert Thompson, whose vendetta against Dr. Gregory House of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital triggered the events that sent her to prison. As a separate part of the state settlement, all of Adler's medical expenses will be paid throughout her lifetime, retroactive to the time of her release from prison. She suffered incapacitating physical injuries during her four-year ordeal.

Adler was investigating House's case history when Thompson turned his attentions to her. Before and during her imprisonment, she was tortured in a manner similar to that inflicted on Dr. House, who now serves as the lead physician on her medical case. Both Adler and House recently testified in the court cases of several prison officials who colluded with Thompson. All were sentenced to the maximum allowed by law.

"**H**ow do you deal with it?"

"Deal with what?" replied Wilson, who knew full well what Evan meant and chose to play dumb.

"With this. With any of it," said Evan, sitting next to Wilson on the sofa at about 2 a.m., after House and Rainie had gone to sleep for the second time that night.

It had been a rough evening. For once, Rainie had gone off to sleep easily, but House was another matter. He was having an especially bad day, one that promised to continue on into the night. Feeling even more pain than usual, he'd dozed briefly and then had awakened yelling in terror from a nightmare. His screams woke Rainie next door, startling her into a flashback.

While Evan and Linda looked after Rainie, assuaging her fears and getting her back to sleep, Wilson spent forty-five minutes settling House down again. Finally, after a massage and a shot of morphine, he'd slipped into a restless sleep. Linda was curled up in the recliner next to his bed.

Now the two exhausted friends sat quietly, finishing up the light dinner they'd abandoned during the crisis.

"I have to know. How can you stand to see your friend like this? How do you find the strength to go on, day after day, putting out this kind of emotional energy, supporting him and buffering him? I watch you, and you never seem flustered or even upset by it."

A strange, grim smile appeared on Wilson's face.

"I never seem flustered? Strange you should say that. I'm really surprised it doesn't show… The truth is, I'm on edge all the time. I don't think I get through an hour without feeling as if I could lose control at any moment."

Evan looked startled, although what he felt was relief. Enormous relief.

Shaking off the emotions, Wilson shrugged.

"It's odd, though. In a peculiar sort of way, I guess it _has _become almost second nature. I've gotten used to that feeling of peering over the edge of a cliff—swaying precariously and feeling as if I'm about to lose my balance. But that took time. At first… at first, it was horrendous."

His eyes drifted away from Evan's, off into his own memories.

"I couldn't see his face, those scars, without thinking about what he'd been through and why—how he'd endured that… that _excruciating _mental and physical torture… to keep me safe. My imagination constantly drifted to images of him in prison, enduring God knows what, while I sat comfortably in my office, living my life as normally as I could."

_Living my life as normally as I could. Assuming House was insane. Never realizing that torture was what had changed him. And then… after… being all too aware of how I'd added to his torment. _

Don't go there.

"But… but you don't show it," said Evan, pressing on, earnestly trying to find in Wilson's response the answer to his own inner distress.

"If you say so. Maybe it doesn't show so much now. At the beginning, when he was first released… I cried constantly. I'd hold it together as much as I could around him, trying not to let him see it… although he wasn't really even aware of his surroundings. But as soon as he went to sleep, I'd lose it. Linda and I sat right here on this couch nearly every night, holding each other and crying. Sometimes, just seeing him would overwhelm me to the point I had to go outside until I could somehow manage to put that mask back on."

Comforted to know that Wilson, too, had the same human reactions he was having, Evan nodded, thinking about the times he'd simply walked out of Rainie's room to try to regain control of himself.

"See this?" said Wilson, unexpectedly, rolling up his shirtsleeve.

On the tender part of Wilson's forearm was an odd mark, a scar, or perhaps it was a series of scars overlapping each other.

Puzzled, Evan looked up at Wilson's face, which betrayed no emotion.

"What… what is it…?"

Wilson looked away, the feelings he'd hid so successfully a second earlier rising momentarily to the surface and then wafting away again.

"For a while, the only way I could handle it was with physical pain. After he became aware again… when I couldn't take it anymore and couldn't let him see how I felt, I pinched myself _hard_ here. Sometimes I pinched so hard, my nails broke the skin. The sharp pain distracted me from my feelings and enabled me to go on. During that first year, it happened so often, I had an open sore there for months. Anything to keep him from knowing how upset I was. He had enough to deal with."

_For the rest of my life, it'll be here, constantly reminding me of what House went through, and how I let him down._

Evan swallowed. So it had been that bad for Wilson, too. Feeling relieved in a way to discover that maybe he wasn't as inadequate as he'd feared, that his own reactions weren't out of the ordinary, he nodded sympathetically.

"So it does get better?"

Wilson looked at him sharply.

"Better? No. It doesn't get better."

Evan drew in a sharp breath and held it.

"Not better?"

It _had_ to get better. Didn't it?

"No. Not better," Wilson repeated, firmly. "Easier, yes, but not better."

"**W**hat's brought this up all of a sudden?" asked Wilson as he dug into the bag of cookies on the coffee table.

"Not sure. Guess I'm taking an interest in things again. And I want Rainie to feel as secure here as I can make it for her. You and Linda did a nice job with her room, but when she leaves it, the rest of this place is insipid."

Keep it simple, thought Wilson. Don't analyze.

"Sounds reasonable. How do you propose to do this? Somehow, I can't see the two of you strolling around the mall."

Good lord, no, thought House with a shudder. Being gawked at by a bunch of teenagers and soccer moms was not his idea of a good time, and he was quite sure Rainie wouldn't handle it well.

"Online, I guess."

"Why not?" said Wilson. "You've got plenty of money. You can do whatever you want. Jeez, you've got enough money that you could wallpaper the place in gold leaf and diamonds and still have enough left over to live extravagantly for the rest of your lives."

As the words left Wilson's mouth, he realized that, on some subconscious level, he must have started to assume that Greg House and Rainie Adler would share their lives for a long time—long enough, anyway, to decorate a home together.


	70. Chapter 70: Other End of the Phone

On the Other End of the Phone…

**W**hen the phone rang, Linda McAllister answered the kitchen extension by simply saying hello.

After she began working for House, Linda had talked to Wilson about phone etiquette. Concerned that the press or crime buffs might occasionally try to find House, the two had decided to err on the side of caution in dealing with anyone who called. As a result, Linda never mentioned House's name—or Rainie's, now that she was here—unless the person on the other end of the phone was known to be a friend.

"Maureen Adler, please."

Linda didn't recognize the voice.

"May I take a message?"

There was a slight pause on the other end.

"Sure. Tell her that George Carter called. My number is 860-555-1584." George Carter spoke in a clipped baritone that might have included a wisp of an accent.

"May I ask how you got this number?" asked Linda, vague suspicion lurking.

_Click._

"Who was it?" asked House from the living room, where he and Rainie were having lunch.

"Don't know. Rainie, honey, it was for you," said Linda as she brought the message out to the living room. She reached over the back of the sofa and handed the message to Rainie, who, House noticed, turned a distinct shade of light grey when she saw the name. Her jaw tightened, and a muscle in her right cheek began to throb.

House deliberately picked up the remote and started channel surfing. He went through all the channels twice before finally settling on the World Championship of Poker. As unobtrusively as he could, he watched Rainie in his peripheral vision.

She said nothing, just stared angrily at her plate and methodically began crushing potato chips under her thumb.

After a couple minutes of this activity, she abruptly set her plate on the coffee table and grabbed her crutches, hauling herself up.

House kept his eyes on the television, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see Rainie shuffling her way toward her room. When he heard the door slam, he knew she'd reached it.

A few seconds later, he and Linda heard a small crash, like the sound of something ceramic smashing against the wall. Then another. And another.

Linda, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, headed toward Rainie's room. As she passed House's wheelchair, he reached out and grabbed her wrist so tightly she was yanked back in her tracks. His fingers made white imprints on her arm. Even as she fought against him, she found herself thinking how good it was for him to have regained that kind of grip strength.

"Don't," he said, his eyes warning her against going further.

"But she might have hurt herself," said Linda, trying to pull away from his fierce grip.

"She hasn't. Leave her alone." This wasn't a request; it was a command.

Another crash assaulted their ears. Linda pulled against him, but House's grip was too strong.

"If she was hurt," he added, "we wouldn't be hearing a series of small crashes—we would be hearing other things… or nothing. Leave her alone."

House stared at the coffee table. Linda had learned to read House's expressions fairly well, but this one was beyond her. His brow was furrowed, his blue eyes cloudy and his mouth set. He was clearly upset, but Linda couldn't put her finger on what he was thinking.

Finally, Linda stopped resisting and relaxed her arm, and House let go of her wrist. They heard another small crash, a mumble of curses, a loud crash and a sob. A small "oh, God" drifted out from that direction.

"Now," said House, spinning his wheelchair and racing toward Rainie's door.

**A**fter they picked Rainie up off the floor and put her to bed, House sat by her side a long time, watching her closely as she stared angrily at nothing in particular. She refused to discuss what had happened, and House decided not to press. Finally, she told him to get the hell out of her room, that she wasn't an orangutan in the zoo, and that she didn't want him there.

For the next two days, he saw in Rainie something he was only vaguely aware of in himself. It was apparent that inwardly she was angry and hurt. Outwardly, she was all stubbornness and sarcasm. She wouldn't eat—try to make her—she wouldn't do her therapy—what difference would it make, anyway?—and she wouldn't play nice with others—they were all idiots.

As much as he could, he stayed out of her way as she stomped around the apartment. No more pottery got broken, but it might as well have. Her anger was palpable and her eyes fiery. She lashed out at Linda, at Wilson, at Jacey and at him—especially at him. Every time she saw him, she needled him, pushed him, picked at him, argued with him, taunted him.

Toward the end of the second day, exhausted by the strain, he talked to Jacey as she settled herself by his bed for their daily one-on-one appointment.

"Don't know what the deal is with this guy, but ever since he called, she's got _agita_," he said in his best New York Italian.

"So I noticed," said Jacey, "although I didn't realize it was connected to anything specific."

House clued her in.

"So far, I'm steering clear, hoping she'll get it out of her system."

"Not working too well, I gather?"

"Not working at all."

"Is there anything in this behavior that seems familiar to you?" Jacey eyed him.

"Not really. She hasn't done this before, at least not since I've known her."

You can do better than that, she thought. You're supposed to be so sharp. She tried again.

"No, I guess not. If it were you, and you suddenly started behaving this way, what do you think would be behind it?"

House looked off to the right. She could see him thinking about it. Finally, he smiled reluctantly.

"You're sneaky," he said. "Have I mentioned that lately?"

"Not in the last… oh, ever," she said, smiling.

"So I'm seeing my own temper and fears reflected in her behavior?"

"Could be."

He thought some more, almost amused by the revelation. He said nothing for a couple of minutes.

"Greg?"

"Hmmm?"

"So, if you were full of _agita_ like this, what would help you? What might get you out of it?"

Damn good questions. Not to mention sneaky.

She didn't let up. "When you're like this, what is it that you're really afraid of? What is it that you really want?"

House remained silent.

"Come on, Greg. If you can't share it with me, how do you think you're going to help her?"

She watched him struggle with himself, head bowed. After a moment, he breathed out through his nose, and nodded curtly, glancing up at her through his lashes.

"I think whoever this is has rejected her or belittled her or hurt her."

Jacey nodded.

"Obvious. Keep going."

He sighed. He hated being obvious.

"It's like what happened in the hospital. She's picking a fight with me, because then if I reject her or hate her, she can justify it, and she has some control over how it happens. Or maybe, she's doing the rejecting first because it's safer that way."

His voice grew very quiet as he looked at the floor in the general vicinity of her feet.

This is incredibly hard for him, thought Jacey. He's got the rare ability to see things as they really are, and because of that uncanny perception, he's always been extraordinarily sensitive. But it also means he can be hurt easily, so he's built up this massive fortress around himself to scare away intruders. And then, after what happened, the fortress walls got even thicker. But to help Rainie, he's having to pull that fortress down.

"I think… maybe I've wanted someone to refuse."

"Refuse?"

"Mm-hmm. Refuse to let me destroy the relationship. Refuse to play the game."

He drifted off into his own thoughts again. Finally, barely a whisper.

"To just… love me anyway."

A very long silence descended.

After nearly five minutes, he finally looked up, his eyes deeply troubled.

"How do I do this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Come on," he said, suddenly annoyed. "Don't be dense. How do I do this without setting the pot to boiling?"

Complicated. But not impossible.

"You don't have to act on your feelings to let her know you love her anyway, that you're not frightened off."

"It's not that easy."

This time, it was Jacey who lost her temper.

"Nonsense, Greg. You've got more self-control than anyone I've ever met. You had enough self-control to survive a horrendous situation, and have had enough to bottle up your feelings for, well, probably decades. I don't think a little sexual tension is going to do you in."

He shrugged, smiling a reluctant smile.

"It's not just the sexual tension."

The fortress. To enter hers, he'd have to tear down the last little bits of his. And risk exposing himself to someone who was in the mood to hurt him.

In a softer voice, Jacey went on.

"Of course it isn't. You'll have to open up to her, even more than you already have, which will make you as vulnerable as she feels right now. And you're just as afraid of being hurt as she is."

He stared at the floor.

"Tell her the truth. Break through her anger and tell her the truth."


	71. Chapter 71: Breaking Through

Breaking Through…

**H**is opportunity came later in the day.

Jacey had left, Jacob Yuen had left, and House had told Linda he was craving cheesecake and sent her to the store. He knew she couldn't resist a chance to get him something fattening.

He and Rainie were alone in the apartment. She'd been holed up in her room since Yuen finished wrestling with her over whether or not she was going to do her therapy. The end result was a tie. He could hear her television.

Making up his mind, he stood up, leaned on the walker, went to her door and tapped gently. No answer.

He knocked louder. Still no answer.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door. The first thing he saw was her angry face.

"Go away."

"No."

"How do I put this? Yes."

He could see her getting more agitated as he refused to leave.

"This is my room, and I don't want you here."

He thought a moment before answering. How would he react? What would he want?

"I… I know you don't. But you're not getting rid of me that easily."

He looked at her steadily, ka-thumped into the room, and sat down in the chair facing her, setting the walker to one side.

Her face flushed as she got angrier.

"Get out of here! I don't want you! Go away and leave me alone!"

She turned in the bed and stared at the television, turning up the volume and trying to will him to leave.

He reached over and forced the remote out of her hand, turning the set off.

"How dare you!" she screamed.

"Listen to me, Rainie." He spoke very quietly, in contrast to her yelling. "I don't care what you say or how angry you get, I'm not leaving. So you might as well settle down."

She opened her mouth to yell something else, but closed it again, startled.

"You _are_ going to listen to me."

She shook her head, her eyes flashing and her teeth bared.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Really. We've already been through this once before, and I'm not going to play this game again. I know exactly what you're doing, because I've done it myself a thousand times."

Now she just looked at him, mouth open.

"Whoever this Carter person is has upset you. A lot. Upset you to the point that you've convinced yourself that all relationships have to end with you getting hurt. I understand that—you have no idea how much I understand that.

"So you're trying to take control of the situation. You think if you make yourself unpleasant enough, that I'll leave you, that I'll hate you. Then it will end as badly as you expect, but at least you'll have been in control. Well, you'd better get this idea clearly in your head, because it's not going to happen. I'm just as stubborn as you are, and…"

He paused and took a breath. _You'll have to open up to her_, Jacey had said. _You're just as afraid of being hurt as she is_.

His voice dropped to a low whisper as he repeated Jacey's words to him.

"…and just as afraid."

Suddenly, Rainie became exceedingly still, and he saw her anger start to dissolve as she dropped her gaze from his. Could he do this? He had to try. Taking a long, slow, deep breath, he went on, still whispering.

"Look at me, Rainie."

She looked at him for just a second and then lowered her eyes again.

He let out a slow, shaky, terrified breath and told her the absolute truth about himself.

"Don't hurt me, Rainie. I have no defenses with you. I'm totally vulnerable. Please don't hurt me. I…"

Now it was his turn to drop his gaze. Something inside him was shattering. His chest constricted.

"…I couldn't stand to lose you. Please… _please_… don't do this."

Suddenly, she was turning toward him, a devastated look on her face.

"Oh… God, Greg. I'm so sorry. I… I don't know what I was thinking. I was so angry and so hurt…"

She reached out a hand to touch his shoulder. He flinched, and she began to tear up.

"I… scared myself the other day," she said, "when we were talking with Jacey Liu. Afterward, I couldn't stop thinking about… Evie and… Jeff. And how much it still hurts to think of them… I'm so afraid of losing you, but I guess I thought if I could make you hate me, it would be safer. Easier."

She got even quieter.

"That's why I did it. I'd rather you got angry with me than for you to be disappointed in me. I never meant to hurt you…"

When she looked at him, she saw something desperate and anguished in his eyes.

"I'm not going to be disappointed in you, and I'm not going to hate you," he said. "Myself, maybe, but not you."

She drew in a short breath. "No…" she whispered.

_To just… love me anyway…_

"No matter what you do, I'll love you anyway."

Her eyes veered away from him. Then she began to cry. And cry. And cry.

He found a box of Kleenex behind him on the dresser, and handed her one. Then another. And another. He kept handing them to her until she'd cried herself out. By the time she was done, she'd used half a box.

"God, I'm sick of myself!" she said, finally, blowing her nose for the umpteenth time. "Where does all this water come from, anyway? I'm so incredibly tired of crying. It's pathetic."

House knew just how she felt.

"Now, what are we going to do about your anger?"

She shook her head.

"Don't know."

"I could buy you more mugs to throw," he suggested.

A glimmer of a smile crossed her face, but she didn't say anything.

What would he have done?

"In the old days… _before_," he said, "I'd have gone for a run or played the piano."

She looked down at her hands, and he saw desolation on her face.

"I used to play the piano… _before_…" she said in a very small voice, staring at her mangled hands. "Sometimes, I played for hours. Oh, Greg! How could they do this to us? How could anyone do this?" She held up her hands in front of his face.

She began to cry again, angrily, furious with herself for losing control. But now he knew what to do.

He took one of her hands in his a moment before placing it gently on the bed.

"Come with me," he said, grabbing his walker.

Startled, she sniffed, blew her nose yet again, got her crutches and followed him into the living room.

After a quick stop at the closet, he went to the coffee table and unrolled the keyboard.

"Listen," he said, as his fingers found the opening chords.

Since his second surgery, he'd been practicing every day for close to two months now. His technique was still weak, but he could play. It wasn't great, but at least it wasn't awful, and mostly, it was recognizable.

She barely breathed as the notes poured out. An F chord topped by an A, onto an A seventh chord, and down to a D minor, and then onto an F seventh and up to a D on a B flat, B diminished and on through to the end. Her eyes closed as she listened, overcome by the emotion of the music, and the realization of what House had accomplished.

"Oh, my God," she whispered, as one solitary, hopeful tear rolled down her cheek. She was almost afraid to ask. "Do you think… maybe… I could do that, too?"

The look on his face said it all. It was open and unguarded. She may have scared him, but she hadn't scared him off.

"If I could, you can. We could even get a piano—a real one. God knows we can afford it."

She yearned for it, hungered for it, ached for it.

"When?" was all she said.


	72. Chapter 72: Money

Money…

"**G**ot a minute?"

Lisa Cuddy looked up from the disciplinary review on her desk to see James Wilson sidling through her office door.

"Sure. Come on in."

Wilson looked uncomfortable as he eased himself into a chair across from her desk.

"What's up?"

He squirmed.

"Ummm, well…"

_Hmmm_, thought Cuddy, watching him struggle. Wonder what's so difficult for him to bring up? Troublesome patient? Interoffice politics? _House?_

She braced herself.

"Ummm… I realize this is none of my business, but I want to ask a favor."

A favor?

Intrigued, Cuddy leaned forward and nodded for Wilson to continue.

"What kind of favor?"

Wilson squirmed again, the fingers of his left hand rubbing the inside of his right forearm.

"I think…" He paused. "I think Rainie Adler could use a friend. A female friend."

Wilson took Cuddy by surprise. To be honest, she hadn't given much thought to Rainie Adler since Rainie and House had left the hospital. Their situation was too uncomfortable to contemplate. So much easier to just ignore it—and them.

"But… but she's got friends, doesn't she? From before?"

Wilson shook his head.

"Only Evan Schuster. The others… well, some of them came to see her in the hospital a few times… and then she never heard from them again. Too awkward, I guess. Couldn't stand seeing her like this."

Suddenly, Cuddy felt vaguely ill. All alone, suffering God knows what kind of emotional trauma, and with no friends to lean on. It's not bad enough that she went through this, but to come out the other side and find that she'd been abandoned by people she trusted. Surrounded by strangers.

How infinitely sad, thought Cuddy. What kind of people had her friends been that they would dump her this way?

And more to the point, what kind of person was she herself to have done essentially the same thing? It had never dawned on her to befriend Rainie. And now, she was wondering _why_ it hadn't dawned on her.

"I only thought of it since House has come back to work part-time," said Wilson, almost apologetically. "She's alone there, with only Linda for company, for hours on end."

"Of course," said Cuddy after a moment. "I'm embarrassed that I didn't consider it myself."

And she was. Seriously embarrassed.

Wilson looked relieved.

"I'll call her," said Cuddy. "Get to know her. Find out what her interests are. Come visit. That would be a start."

Wilson nodded.

"It won't be easy, with your schedule, I guess," he ventured. "It's hard on Evan, too. Working all day in the city, and then trying to come out to Princeton after work and on weekends. Between the scheduling and, well, dealing with all the emotions, he's exhausted."

"Let me think a minute. What days is House working now?"

She ought to know, but she just couldn't remember.

"Tuesdays and Thursdays. As full a day as he can manage."

Cuddy was way ahead of him.

"You know, there's no reason why I can't shift some of my hours to free up time on those days," she said. "Paperwork can be done any time. Can't do much about meetings or hands-on stuff, but I ought to be able to work something in."

Wilson seemed grateful that Cuddy had immediately risen to the occasion.

"That would be good. I've also suggested to Evan that he try to get her into a few online groups. You know, things she's interested in. At least then she's got some kind of community."

"Do we know what she likes? Books? Films? Hobbies from before?"

Wilson shook his head. He tried to remember what books he'd seen on Rainie's bedside table. He could picture fat volumes, but had no idea what they contained.

"House probably knows, but I don't think anyone else has asked—just been dealing with the day-to-day recovery."

"Well, then," said Cuddy decisively. "Maybe it's time someone found out."

"**S**o, what do you wanna do tonight, Marty?"

Startled, Wilson glanced over at Evan, who was sitting on his right and looking back at him with a straight face.

After an amused pause, he replied, "I dunno, Angie. What do you wanna do?"

Evan laughed. "Well, I guess watching _Marty_ is out of the question," he said, observing Wilson's reaction with a sense of satisfaction. "We obviously know it _waaaay_ too well."

Chuckling, Wilson agreed.

For the first time in two years, Wilson had time on his hands. Initially, he'd plunged back into work with a vengeance. But over the last couple of weeks, he realized he needed to figure out how to create a life for himself again. It was apparent that House wasn't up to the kind of hanging out the two of them used to do—and probably never would be again—but Evan clearly needed a break from the emotions, and Wilson found they had a lot in common.

"Bowling?"

"Yeah. I could go for that."

So after dinner out, they went bowling. If they did something really physical, Wilson wouldn't feel too guilty about not including House.

**T**he problem with getting multimillion-dollar checks is what to do with them. Rainie hadn't thought about it, but House certainly had, and so the two of them plus Wilson and Linda were going to the bank to open an account. A large account. A very large account.

Rainie had not been out in public since that day at the _Times_, except for the occasional drive and a couple of quiet dinners at Giordano's. She knew what to expect—stares, whispers, even the occasional comment—but actually dealing with it and with other people turned out to be harder when it happened than when she imagined it.

Leaving the apartment was fine. Getting in the car was fine. Driving was fine. Getting out of the car at the curb while Wilson went to park was fine. Going into the bank was when it stopped being fine.

House was in his wheelchair for stability, and Rainie was hobbling alongside with her walker. Both looked down or, occasionally, at each other.

The problems didn't start until they were a few paces into the bank and headed toward the sign that said New Accounts. A teenaged boy in baggy pants and t-shirt with a baseball cap pushed back on his head glanced at them as he passed by. Then he stopped and did a classic movie double take. Rainie put her head further down. House looked back at him defiantly.

"Jesus!" the kid mumbled under his breath.

"Trust me, kid," said House, trying to stare him down, "Jesus had nothing to do with it."

The kid continued to gape, while behind him, a middle-aged couple was wrapped up in conversation, not watching where they were going. They crashed right into the kid, and then looked around to see what had stopped his momentum.

"Oh, my God!" said the woman, far too loudly.

"What the hell!" said the man, attracting the attention of several other customers, who felt the need to see what all the fuss was about.

House gritted his teeth. Rainie, for whom all this was still fairly new, could feel herself flushing with embarrassment. House reached out and touched her forearm.

"Just keep going," he muttered.

She inched forward, lowering her head even more.

Wilson moved around them to see if he could find a bank manager and arrange a more private place for their conversation. House caught a glimpse of his angry face as he passed by.

There's something about stillness that attracts attention, and the frozen bodies of the three gawkers somehow brought bank business to a halt, with virtually everyone in the place now staring at the two broken people. A few customers tried to look away politely after their initial shocked glances, but most just continued to stare.

Whispered comments wafted through the air.

"…guy from the news…"

"…Court TV…"

"…how dreadful…

"…just _look _at them…"

Up ahead, Wilson berated himself for not calling ahead and arranging this better.

A small child's voice rang out in the silence.

"Mommy? What's the matter with that lady's face?"

"Shh! Don't stare, April. It isn't polite."

"What's polite mean?"

"It means it isn't nice."

"Oh. But what's wrong with her face?"

Rainie's shoulders began to quiver, and there was nothing House could do.

"Keep going," he said again, trying to change the dynamic of the situation by sheer force of his will.

But she couldn't keep going. She couldn't do anything but stand there, grip the walker and shake. A tear fell onto her right hand.

For Linda, this was old news. Whenever she'd been out with House, it was always the same. Sometimes—rarely—they were lucky and no one paid attention, but mostly a scene ensued. Every time she'd tried to come up with a way to make it not happen, she failed. She'd tried blocking other people's view, tried getting angry, tried pleading with people to leave him alone. Nothing worked. This time she did nothing.

Where was Wilson?

"Don't let it get to you. Keep going."

As another tear slid down her cheek, Rainie scooted forward a few inches, and then a few more. Her face had flushed red, which just made the scars stand out more clearly.

"Come on. We're almost there."

Wilson scurried back toward them, the only movement in the bank. Somehow his activity jump-started the rest of the other customers and tellers into looking away, and getting on with their business.

"We're going to the VP's office," he said. "It's over here, to the right." He pointed to a nearby door.

"Can you make it that far?" asked House, his voice quieter and more tender.

"I-I think so," said Rainie, trying to pull herself together.

Somehow, they got to the vice president's office, aware of the sidelong glances and outright stares. Once inside, once the door shut and she stumbled onto a chair, Rainie fell apart, shuddering. House grasped both of her hands, leaned toward her and murmured something Wilson and Linda couldn't hear.

She nodded and rubbed at her eyes. Linda handed her a tissue and placed a reassuring hand on Rainie's shoulder.

"Idiots," Linda said, picking a word out of House's vocabulary book.

Rainie gave a half-smile.

"Always said I was a freak," she said, under her breath.

House looked at her sharply.

"Who did?"

She didn't answer.

The vice president joined them a few seconds later, and did that hand-shaking thing that House hated. Didn't know where to look, his shocked reaction apparent on his face, and then he gripped Rainie's hand too tightly, causing her to wince.

Once Mr. VP realized the nature of the transaction, that these two were bringing millions into his branch, he offered special services that would enable House and Rainie to use the bank without ever again having to go through a lobby full of people. After they were done with today's business, which took a couple of hours, he suggested they wait for a few minutes, and then he, personally, would escort them out.

Money had its privileges.


	73. Chapter 73: Renovations

Renovations…

**W**ithin a month, crates began arriving. Rather than hire a design firm, House and Rainie decided to design everything themselves, figuring it was a way to keep them mentally active and give them a sense of control over the situation. House also made some unusual choices about who would help with the unpacking, painting, setting up. The last thing House wanted was for anyone coming in the door of the apartment reacting to Rainie the way the people in the bank had. She needed to know her home was secure. And so did he.

So, at Linda's suggestion, House hired two of her physical therapist friends who needed extra cash. Physically strong and emotionally sensitive, they came by a few hours every day or so to unpack crates, assemble furniture and bookcases, paint, hang pictures and arrange things—whatever was needed to turn a nondescript apartment into a home. A plumber and an electrician were hired after promising interviews with House, along with a couple of people the pumber recommended who took care of retiling the kitchen and bathroom and building cabinets.

Slowly, the place began to take on the character of its residents. The living room and House's bedroom were painted deep blue, while the kitchen and bath took on the muted yellow from Rainie's room. The wooden floor of the living room was re-polished and the dark wood of the baseboards and doors was re-stained to bring out its texture. Simple but elegant black-and-white marble tiling replaced the old tile in the kitchen and bath, and a soothing Jacuzzi was installed, which would comfort them when their bones and muscles ached.

The backyard was transformed into a sanctuary, with a gently landscaped Japanese garden in one corner and a multi-level fountain in the other. On the patio between House's and Wilson's units, cushioned patio chairs surrounded a wrought iron table topped in a bright ceramic mosaic. Further out into the yard two softly cushioned curve-backed sofas alternated with two _chaise longues_ to form a circle around a small fire pit table.

Indoors, soft lighting was added throughout: sconces, recessed lighting and a couple of torchieres as well as a few Tiffany lamps in the living room, a small Murano glass chandelier in the breakfast nook and reproduction Victorian fixtures in the bath and kitchen, plus simple artisan lamps in the bedrooms.

Keeping the outside world at bay, blinds covered all the windows, which were framed by soft, flowing curtains. A Bose sound system inhabited the living room.

As boxes from Amazon were unpacked, the newly constructed bookcases filled up with an assortment of medical texts, international fiction, history, biographies. One cabinet was reserved for DVDs, mostly for the B movies and TV series of House's choosing, but Rainie had her way with pre-Code films, comedies and musicals. Part of another was full of music CDs.

Carefully and thoughtfully, they chose artwork—an early print of Steichen's 1904 color photo of the Flatiron building, a Hirschfeld original of the Marx Brothers, an art deco Icart print, a Hanabusa Itcho painting, a Thurber dog, an Alexander Calder mobile, a John Held Jr. sketch from the `20s.

On one shelf sat a vintage candlestick telephone; on another a Bakelite radio from the 1930s. In one corner stood an early horn Victrola. An ornate miniature antique birdcage—one of several items rescued by Evan from Rainie's house upon her imprisonment—adorned the center of the coffee table.

Dotting the shelves were fragile pieces of art glass, most of it from Italy and all chosen by Rainie, who had always had a passion for rare glass. Vases, bowls, platters, plates and sculptures in vivid hues—lit from above and below—gave the living room a graceful, cosmopolitan aspect.

At first, Rainie was afraid to tell House how much she wanted these beautiful things around her, and equally afraid that, in her new clumsiness, she might break something. But he seemed to want her to be surrounded by things that made her happy, and nothing made her happier than this glass art.

"**R**ainie?"

"No… this is Linda," said the deep, slightly hesitant voice on the other end.

"Oh, Linda. Hi. This is Dr. Cuddy."

A miniscule sigh of relief.

"Dr. Cuddy. Hi. Good to hear from you."

"Is Rainie available?"

Startled.

"Sure… she's just finished her morning PT. I think she's still awake. I'll go check."

Long pause. Very long pause.

"Hello?"

The clear contralto voice sounded tentative, as if unused to talking on the phone. Which shouldn't be surprising.

"Hi, Rainie. It's Lisa Cuddy."

"Oh, hi, Dr. Cuddy. Greg isn't here."

"I know. He's here at work. I'm calling to talk to you."

"Really? Why?"

There was that bluntness Cuddy suddenly remembered. A flash of memory. That bulldog tenacity blazing out of those intense eyes. The small, passionate woman sitting across from her, asking insistent questions about Greg House… a lifetime ago.

"Because I was wondering if you'd like some company now and then. My schedule has opened up." A small fib.

"Sure. I guess so."

Suspicious. Why now, after all these months?

Might as well be honest. Up to a point, anyway.

"The truth of the matter is, Rainie, I'm feeling guilty."

The voice was full of genuine surprise.

"Guilty? Why?"

"I got caught up in my own life, and hadn't thought much about you since you were released from here."

Again, bluntness.

"Why should you? I'm just a patient. And not even your patient."

"But that's just it. You're not just a patient. We knew each other... _before_…" _Skip by it quickly, Lisa. That way you don't have to think about it._ "…and we'd seen each other on a more personal basis while you were still in the hospital."

Beat.

"Fair enough."

"It's only about 15 minutes away, so I thought maybe I could come over and visit occasionally when Greg's at work. You've got to be bored silly by now. I figured you could use somebody different to hang out with."

Another beat.

And another.

Followed by a very long pause.

A hitched breath. The voice was whisper quiet.

"Th-that would be… really nice, Dr. Cuddy. I'd really appreciate it."

_Dear God_, thought Cuddy. _Wilson wasn't kidding. She's desperately lonely over there. What's the matter with me? Why didn't I do this earlier?_

"How about tomorrow? I don't have any meetings during the day, and the only thing I have to deal with is a bunch of tedious paperwork. I can do that at home later. So my schedule's pretty much my own. Oh, and call me Lisa."

"Sure… Lisa. I've got PT for an hour at 10, but anytime after 11 would be good. Maybe… maybe we could have lunch?"

It was a plea.

_I bet no one's thought to find out what she likes to eat. She's probably eaten the same things day in and day out for weeks_.

"How about if I stop someplace and bring something in? What are you craving?"

"_Ohhh!_" came Rainie's unexpected response.

_What an expressive voice she's got_, thought Cuddy. _I know exactly what she's thinking. She's excited by the idea of having something different._

"Indian? Do you think we could we have Indian? I haven't had tandoori or curry in…" She stopped suddenly, remembering what had taken place since that last time. Pulling herself together, she finished the sentence. "…eons, I guess."

Ignoring the emotional pause, Cuddy said, "Indian it is. Any favorites?"

Rainie thought about it.

"Surprise me," she said. "Just make sure there's Peshwari naan."

"Great. It's my favorite, too. Are you all right with spicy?"

"Sure, as long as not everything is hot… I should warn you—I may not eat much. I… don't seem to… have much of an appetite."

"Goody. More for me," said Cuddy promptly, ignoring the underlying implications.

Cuddy heard a hint of a laugh on the other end.

She thought back to the last time she had seen Rainie—when she'd left the hospital—still stick-thin, her contorted bones all too evident. _The bastards starved her_, thought Cuddy with disgust, once again kicking herself for neglecting the opportunity to reach out to Rainie.

"You know we're renovating? The place is kind of a mess."

No, she hadn't known. Interesting. Wonder who initiated it? Wilson probably, she decided. Or maybe Rainie herself.

Make it an opportunity.

"How fun!" she said. "Can't wait to see everything. Be prepared to tell me all about it."

"…Okay."

Still hesitant.

"So I'll see you tomorrow around 11, then."

"I'm looking forward to it, Rainie."

And she was.

The renovations provided a good place to start their friendship. Talking with Rainie about the designs and how construction was progressing gave them a chance to get to know each other.

The biggest surprise was finding out that not only had House initiated the idea, but that he'd been involved in every decision, from the most complicated construction right on down to the smallest item on each shelf. Not for the first time, Cuddy realized she had very little idea what took place behind that gruff façade.

Because she'd already seen Rainie's injuries, Cuddy didn't find the physical damage too daunting, which made it easier for both of them. Although she was dismayed by what she saw—angered definitely and saddened certainly—she wasn't shocked. And that helped.

After just a couple of visits, Cuddy became aware that befriending Rainie Adler was no charity work. She genuinely liked the woman, so reaching out to her came naturally.

At first, it was hard. Rainie, although smart and funny, was constantly guarded, volunteering very little, often drifting off into her own mind. And who could blame her?

But as Lisa became a regular presence, as the two of them got to know each other, Rainie slowly—slowly—_slowly_—began to let down her shield and began—_slowly_—tentatively—to open up.

And Lisa Cuddy found that she felt better about herself than she had in a very long time.


	74. Chapter 74: The Big Day

The Big Day…

**O**ne morning, House woke up early with a sense of anticipation. Unbeknownst to him, Rainie was lying in bed next door, wide awake and staring at the ceiling, thrumming with eagerness. Their piano was arriving today. It was the only thing they had bought in person.

Two weeks earlier, Linda had called ahead to the Austria Piano Store in Princeton and asked to speak to the owner. As tactfully as she could, she explained the needs of her two clients. Fortunately, the owner had followed the news stories and displayed a sympathetic understanding of their desire to visit the store without become objects of attention. The store would be opened to them privately after hours two days hence.

At about 9:30 p.m. on the bitterly cold Thursday night, they went out. It had snowed earlier in the day, and the sidewalk was treacherous with melted snow re-frozen into ice. Just to be safe, they both used their wheelchairs rather than risking a fall with walkers or crutches.

Wilson helped them into his Volvo, stashing the wheelchairs in the trunk. Linda rode shotgun. Always a careful driver, Wilson was maddeningly slow this time, to the point that House became particularly exasperating, causing Wilson to snap at him, at which time Rainie gently laid her hand on House's arm and whispered something to him, something Wilson couldn't hear, and then House settled down.

They pulled up to the back of the store, where Wilson parked as close as he could to the door. As he got the wheelchairs out of the trunk, Linda hopped out quickly, going to the door and knocking. After a moment, the door swung wide and was propped open by owner Andrea Daniels, who waited while her two customers were settled in their chairs and rolled inside. She seemed unfazed by their appearance, which helped put them at ease.

"Steinway?" asked Andrea as they entered the warm building.

"If we can't get a Bechstein," replied House casually.

Rainie gasped.

"A Bechstein? Do you think we can?" she asked, clearly thrilled with the idea.

House looked at her closely. If she had this reaction at the thought of a Bechstein, she might have been a real musician, he thought. She'd said she played jazz piano. Now he considered the possibility that she had played well.

When Andrea Daniels heard the name Bechstein, she knew she was dealing with discriminating musical palates.

To Wilson, it sounded like a foreign language.

"Is that good?" he asked.

Both Rainie and House looked at him incredulously.

"_Anyone_ can have a Steinway," said Rainie, as if explaining algebra to a first-grader. "But a Bechstein…! I've only played one once, and I'll never forget it."

Andrea found herself looking at the woman's hands, doubting that she'd ever play again. She'd read the news stories and knew—at least approximately—what had been done to these two, but seeing the evidence of it on Rainie Adler's hands was almost too painful to consider. She blinked back tears.

But Dr. House's hands seemed to be in better shape, so maybe this wasn't hopeless.

"I've got a couple of instruments that might interest you," she said. "Come with me."

Sure enough, she had not just one, but two Bechsteins—both ebony parlor grands.

Scarcely breathing, House rolled himself up to the first, Rainie close behind him. He laid his hands reverently on the keys, and sighed. Closing his eyes, he felt the notes of "Silent Night" under his fingers.

Andrea was riveted watching him play. What had it cost him to be able to do this, she wondered. From what she'd heard, his hands had been crushed. Linda had told her over the phone that he had recently undergone a couple of operations to try to correct the damage, and that Rainie Adler would soon undergo the first of several similar surgeries.

Despite a hesitance in his playing, she could hear the hallmarks of a sensitive musician as he played, the sounds emanating not from his hands but from his soul.

When he was done, he deferred to Rainie. She shook her head, sadly, not wanting even to try until she thought she had some control over her hands.

He was clearly moved by the experience, and sat quietly for a while after testing the piano.

Then he tried the other Bechstein, playing the same song in much the same way, but somehow—even to Wilson's untrained ear—different.

"Which one?" he asked Rainie.

"Not sure. How's the action on the second one?" she asked thoughtfully.

"Sure you don't want to try even a couple of notes?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Not until… after."

He thought about it for a minute, realizing he'd have said the same thing.

"So what do you want to know about the action?" he asked, genuinely curious about what it was she'd heard.

"The second one sounded a little tight, a little less sensitive. I just want to know if I'm right, or if your hands are getting tired."

Andrea, who had been wondering which one they'd choose, suddenly perked up. If Rainie Adler's hands had once been as good as her ear, she had probably been quite a musician. What a loss.

The tragedy of their circumstances suddenly hit her viscerally, and she had to turn away to keep from letting them see that their situation made her physically ill. Fortunately, they were focused on the pianos. As she pulled herself together and turned back around, her gaze swept past Wilson's. He smiled sympathetically.

House shook his head thoughtfully. "Not sure. Let me try the first one again."

He wheeled himself back to it and played a few notes.

"You're right," he said. "First one's better. Much better."

Andrea smiled to herself. Almost without trying, they had chosen the best piano in the store.

**A**t the sound of the doorbell, House's heart started pounding. His—their—piano was coming home.

**O**n a cold Thursday afternoon, a bone-weary House got out of his car, and trudged on his crutches to the front door. Just inside, he found Linda waiting for him in the living room.

"Step outside," she said quietly. "I need to talk to you."

She looked serious… and worried. After scanning her face for clues, he nodded and retreated to the stoop, leaning heavily on his crutches.

"What?" he asked, his warm breath creating a cloud of condensation.

"We've got a problem."

"I gathered. What is it?"

Linda hesitated.

House's eyes narrowed. Normally, Linda was unflappable, but today, something had shaken her calm demeanor.

"Come on. Out with it. Whatever it is, don't worry about how it sounds. Just say it. I'm too tired to exercise my mind-reading skills."

"Rainie got the mail today."

He looked at her sharply, his eyes pinched with pain and exhaustion.

"Don't make me work for it," he said irritably. "Get to the point."

"_This_ came."

She handed House an open envelope. The name on the printed address label read "Maureen Adler." There was no return address, although the envelope bore a postmark from New York City's Ansonia Station.

As he read the computer-printed letter inside, his breath caught.

"_You fucking little whore_," it began, "_who did you sleep with to get out of that murder rap?_"

Heart beginning to stutter in his chest, he read on.

"_You won't get away with it, you know. And neither will that doctor friend of yours. How'd you get him to lie for you on the witness stand? We can guess. Decent citizens won't let you obstruct justice this way. People like you deserve to die. We'll make sure you're both sent to the gas chamber, where you belong."_

"Shit," said House, turning pale.

"Indeed," said Linda, watching him closely. "There was one for you, too."

A similar message was sent to House, this one making it clear that the sender not only knew where Rainie lived, but that House lived in the same place. The implications drawn from this information were unmistakable and expressed in disagreeably graphic terms.

As he began to sway, Linda reached out an arm to support him.

"Steady, doc. You're going to have to hold it together until we figure out how to deal with this."

"How'd they find out where we are?"

His voice was raspy and subdued.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

Taking a deep breath, he pulled himself up straight.

"Where is she? Where's Rainie? More important, _how_ is she?"

"Bedroom. She's upset. She's extremely upset. Dr. Cuddy got here right after the mail delivery, and she's been in with her all afternoon."

At just that moment, a dark car drove by, then backed up and pulled in front of the duplex, its engine running.

Surveying the situation rapidly, Linda took hold of House's arm. "Inside," she said firmly. "_Now!_"

Nodding, barely concealed panic on his face, House moved toward the door.

As he stepped through the threshold, with Linda's right arm around his back to guide him in, he heard the car door open.

"_Dr. House!_" said a deep voice behind him.


	75. Chapter 75: Daddy's Boy

Daddy's Boy…

"**D**_r. House!_" called the deep voice again.

House and Linda moved as quickly as they could until they were safely inside. Linda slammed the door shut behind them, locking it and sliding the deadbolt.

She looked at her patient. He was leaning up against the door, panting and trembling.

"Doc… you okay? Can I get you anything?"

House shook his head as he took several deep, gulping breaths and tried to calm himself down.

_Idiot_, he thought. _After all this time and I still freak out. Am I ever going to get past it? Ever have some kind of a normal life?_

Just then, the doorbell rang.

House jumped.

"Dr. House!" came the muffled voice through the heavy wooden door, accompanied by pounding. "_Dr. House!_"

"I'll handle it," said Linda firmly, observing her patient's alarmed reaction. "Go on back to Rainie."

He didn't any encouragement. Making his way to Rainie's bedroom, he found her door closed.

Knocking softly, he whispered, "It's me. Okay if I come in?" He was annoyed to find his hands shaking.

Within seconds, the door opened, and he was face to face with his boss.

Cuddy took one look at him, and stepped outside, gently closing the door behind her.

"You read it?" asked Cuddy.

House nodded.

"And its twin. The one for me was revelatory, to say the least."

"This is disgusting," said Cuddy, sudden fury on her face.

"Agreed," he replied. "But not unusual. I got a lot of these when I was first released… or so Wilson tells me. I wasn't in any condition to be aware of what was going on. Probably just as well."

"I know all about it," said Cuddy, who went on to tell him something he hadn't known. "They came to the hospital. After the first couple showed up, the mailroom has been screening everything addressed to you. We've held onto them, just in case… Did the same when Rainie was admitted and you were suddenly back in the news. We've got boxes full downstairs. There sure are a lot of nutty people out there."

House couldn't have agreed more.

"But this is different," he said, finally. "Someone has our home address, knows we're both living here and is threatening us." He glanced over his shoulder, listening to Linda's voice from the living room. "And _someone _is here right now."

Cuddy stared at him.

"Seriously?"

"Uh-huh."

"For Christsake's! Why didn't you say something?" she said, swinging open the door to Rainie's room. "Get in here!"

Just as they were about to go in, he heard Linda's voice behind him.

"Doc, doc! It's okay. Come back out. Really, it's safe. You might want to bring Rainie, too."

Puzzled, House looked at Cuddy, who shrugged her shoulders as if to say that she had no idea what was going on.

"You're sure…?" he called out, hesitantly.

"Positively," came Linda's definite voice back at him. "Come on out here."

"I'll get Rainie," said Cuddy, turning back into the bedroom.

When House entered the living room, he found Linda handing a cup of coffee to FBI agent Joe Roberts, who was sitting in one of the deep, comfortable living room chairs. House exhaled a long, relieved breath. At least with Roberts here, they'd be safe.

Dropping down onto the couch, House let his crutches fall heavily to the floor. Hearing irregular footsteps behind him, he turned to see a very shaky Rainie headed his way, followed by Cuddy.

Roberts stood to greet them.

"Joe, it's you," said Cuddy, crossing the room quickly to give the FBI agent an affectionate hug. "You scared the crap out of us."

"So Linda was just telling me. Sorry, folks. Didn't mean to cause a panic."

"Well, you did," said House, suddenly bad-tempered, now that the perceived danger was past.

Linda turned her attention to Rainie, who was just starting to perch herself on the couch next to House. Her movements were slow and uncertain, and she was far too pale. Her hands shook uncontrollably. Not wanting to seem patronizing—something Linda had learned to avoid in dealing with both of her patients—but wanting to reach out to her, she offered Rainie a cup of coffee.

"No, that's okay," came the soft reply. "I don't really need anything that will make me more jittery."

"So what are you doing here?" asked House bluntly of Roberts, once everyone had settled in.

"Oh, sorry, Dr. House. Didn't Lisa tell you? She called and told me what was going on. I figured it was worth a trip out to Princeton. I'd been meaning to check in with both of you for a while anyway."

House glared at Cuddy.

"You couldn't tell me?"

Cuddy smiled ruefully.

"There wasn't exactly time. Besides, who knew Joe would come out here in person?"

Once everyone had calmed down, Roberts took control of the situation.

"I need to see the letters. And the envelopes," he said, as he slipped on a pair of latex gloves.

Linda handed them over.

"With all the handling, it may be hard to get prints, but you never know," he explained.

"So what do we do?" asked Linda. "Go to a hotel? Move?" She couldn't imagine that her patients were going to want to stay here, under these circumstances. Although they'd both come so far, this threat to their safety could have all sorts of psychological repercussions.

"Don't go anywhere yet," said Roberts. "There are only a few ways someone could get this information—we've already got a lead on who it might be."

"So soon?" asked Cuddy, startled.

"Fortunately, yes."

He read through the two letters and examined the postmarks carefully.

"Good news. I think it's going to be fine."

"How on earth can you know that?" challenged House. "There's no return address."

"Doesn't need to be," said Roberts. "You may notice that there's also no stamp."

He held out the envelopes. Sure enough. Neither envelope had a stamp on it, although both were cancelled.

"But how…?" started Cuddy.

Roberts responded before she had a chance to finish the thought.

"There's a postal worker we've had our eye on for a while—we're pretty sure he's been using the postal service to send threatening letters to people in the news. He works at the Ansonia Station in the city. I think you just gave us enough evidence to arrest him."

House glanced at Rainie. Color was beginning to return to her face. He eased himself a little closer to her on the sofa.

"Thank God," she whispered. "Linda, if the offer's still good, I'll take that coffee now."

"But how…?" Cuddy repeated, as Linda poured coffee into Rainie's travel mug.

"As I said, only a few types of people could have access to your joint address information," said Roberts simply. "Someone at the hospital, one our people, or a postal worker. Maybe a few others. Most of them wouldn't have had access to contact information for the other recipients. Narrows it down to one of our folks, or someone inside the post office.

"We've already checked. Our suspect was on duty when these letters were postmarked. In addition, the wording of these disgusting little missives is remarkably similar to those sent to other victims."

House felt the tension leave his body. Suddenly, he was exhausted.

Cuddy still wasn't completely satisfied.

"Could it be someone else?" she asked, a little unwillingly.

"Unlikely," said Roberts. "We'll know soon enough. Even with all the handling, we can probably get prints from the letters and the envelopes. Maybe even DNA. I know Dr. House and Ms. Adler…" He hesitated a moment. "…already have fingerprints on file… so if you and Ms. McAllister wouldn't mind being fingerprinted, we can separate your prints, along with those of the other people who have handled the documents, and determine whether any that remain belong to our suspect."

"Of course I wouldn't mind, Joe," said Cuddy, smiling at him.

Linda didn't mind, either.

"Just to be safe, I'll put some of my people to guard your door for the next few days, if that's all right with you folks."

That was more than all right with House and with Rainie, who had finally stopped shaking. After another hour, once everyone had gotten over the shock, Cuddy and Roberts took their leave.

Over the next few days, House felt reassured as he passed FBI agents on his way in and out of the duplex. Finally, after a week, Roberts reported back that the Ansonia Station suspect had confessed after being confronted with his prints and DNA on the letters.

Life returned to what passed for normal.

**A** blustery Tuesday evening was the first time House had seen his father since before Pevey attacked him. If he could have figured some way out of it, he would have, but even Wilson—who was not thrilled by the notion that House's father would be invading House's refuge—couldn't come up with a good enough reason to refuse him entry into the house.

The real problem, of course, was House's mother, who had kept her husband away when House was in the hospital, but now that House was feeling better, insisted on bringing him along to visit.

Under the best of circumstances, when House was healthy, John and Greg House had a bristly and combative relationship. Now that the world had chewed House up and spit him out, he tended to shut down around his father, retreating into a silent world where his father's comments were kept at an emotional distance.

Of course, in addition to knowing about John House's assault of his son in prison, Wilson had heard more about House's childhood than he had before. For him, it was very black and white. John House had abused his extremely sensitive boy in an unforgivable way. Wilson was incapable of seeing the frustration of a military father, who as a child had been disciplined in exactly the same way, trying to control a frighteningly brilliant and unmanageable young son.

When they arrived, around six o'clock, Wilson met them at the door.

"Hi, James," said Blythe. "It's always good to see you."

If he hadn't known about her stroke, he might not have noticed the tell-tale signs—the minor slurring of her words, the drag of her left foot and the slight curling of her left hand. Her rehabilitation had gone remarkably well. He kissed her cheek and nodded toward House's father, showing them both into the living room, where House and Rainie were seated, Rainie in one of the chairs and House on the couch. His mother sat down next to her son with her husband on the other side of her. Wilson took the other chair.

House introduced his parents to Rainie, referring to her as one of his patients who needed a place to recuperate.

Rainie was well aware that she was being inspected, and smiled nervously. She vaguely remembered Blythe from her visits while House was recuperating, but was not looking forward to meeting John House.

What Rainie saw when she looked at him was a slim, straight man with silver hair and watery blue eyes. He carried himself with military bearing. She scanned his face to see if she could see the evidence there of the man who forced his small child into an ice bath and then made him sleep outside, frightened, on a cold night. She couldn't see it.

What John House saw when he looked at Rainie was a tiny, painfully thin, dark-haired woman with large, hazel eyes. He couldn't help staring at her face, which was spattered with scars that were barely covered by makeup. One in particular, which meandered across her left cheek and down onto her neck, captured his attention.

Blythe was gracious.

"I do hope you're feeling better now, Miss Adler," she said, not quite looking at her.

Rainie smiled and said yes, she was, thank you.

Looking around at the apartment, Blythe admired the new décor.

"It's lovely, James," she said, as if he must be responsible.

"I-I didn't do it, Blythe," said Wilson, flustered. "You need to compliment Greg and Rainie. They spent weeks choosing every item and working with the contractors. They never even asked my opinion."

He saw Blythe's startled eyes dart from her son's face to Rainie's, trying to decipher their relationship. Once she recovered, Blythe picked up the conversation and changed the subject.

"Greg, are you playing the piano again?"

He nodded, mute.

"Perhaps you'll play something for us later?"

"Maybe," he said. What he really meant by maybe was no, he wouldn't. Not tonight. Not with them here.

With the exception of House, who said very little, they all made small talk for a few minutes until Wilson announced that dinner was ready and they adjourned to the dining table.

Wilson had prepared a simple meal—turkey meatloaf, cut green beans and mashed potatoes—mostly because they were easy for Rainie to deal with. He couldn't see John House reacting well to seeing him cut up Rainie's food for her.

At the end of the table closest to the kitchen was Wilson, with Rainie on his right and House on his left. Blythe was on the other side of House and John House on Rainie's right.

The barbs started almost as soon as they were seated and the meal had begun. While never looking directly at his son, John House, kept up a steady stream of loaded questions. In his mind, this kind of prodding was meant to strengthen his son, make him into a better person. For his son, though, it was merely unbearable and embarrassing.

In fact, it was intolerable.


	76. Chapter 76: Mama's Boy

Mama's Boy…

"**S**o, son, what exactly happened? This Pevey guy—what did you do to him? The papers said you blackmailed him. Is that true?"

John House leaned forward as he spoke.

House turned his head to avoid looking at his father.

"Pretty much," he replied tersely.

"You could go to jail for that, you know."

"I've already been in jail." His words hit the air liked popped balloons.

"You know, son, life would be a lot simpler for you if you'd just learn to get along."

"Dad…" House tried to warn him off, but unlike his only child, John House was not terribly perceptive.

"What? What did I say? All I'm saying is that you could have saved yourself a lot of grief if you'd just figured out how to be a little less trouble to everyone around you."

House lowered his head. Wilson saw the defeated look on House's face, and girded himself to try—once again—to intervene.

"Mr. House…" he began, but John House had more to say.

"I'm sure those folks who beat you up in jail would've been a little less rough on you if you hadn't given them such a hard time. And speaking of, son, you've really got to get over this. I've known plenty of guys who got in fights, and they don't go off the deep end like you have. You've got to get some backbone."

That did it for Wilson. House said nothing, just looked at the floor. He was going to be stoic about it for his mother's sake, thought Wilson. Either that, or he actually believed his father was right… or some warped combination of the two. Whichever way, the situation was intolerable. But just as Wilson was about to say something, a soft contralto voice to his right spoke up.

"You can't really be serious, can you?" asked Rainie. "You do know what happened to him?"

Startled, John House turned to the small woman at his left. Her large eyes were staring at him intently.

"Sure I do. Everyone does. It was in the papers."

She looked at him aghast.

"Did you actually _read _any of those stories? Did you ever talk to his doctors, Mr. House?"

"I got the gist."

She was blunt.

"No, Mr. House, apparently you didn't."

John was taken aback. He wasn't used to women talking to him that way, or much of anyone else, for that matter.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," she said, pointedly. "If you seriously think your son asked for this and doesn't have a backbone, then you need to listen to me, and you need to listen to me closely."

He found himself unable to respond.

"Look at me, Mr. House." She struggled to her feet, and tugged off her cardigan, revealing her disfigured arms.

"No, don't, Rainie," said House, reaching across the table to try to stop her. She chose to ignore him.

She pulled up her floor-length skirt to above her knees, showing her legs, and finally, lifted the lower part of her blouse so he could see part of her stomach.

At that, John House gasped, appalled by what he saw.

"You don't know me yet, so you have no preconceived ideas about me. Do you think I deserved this?"

She held her mangled hands out in front of his face.

"Is there anything—_anything_—I could have done to deserve this?"

John House was shocked. How could anyone injure a woman this way? He knew about soldiers who had raped and even killed women, but they were obviously deranged. And yet, even in war, he'd never seen anything like this.

"No, no, of course not."

Leaning heavily on the table, then gripping the back of Wilson's chair, she made her way carefully around the end of the table to stand next to House, laying her hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her, his eyes blank.

He whispered: "Don't do this, Rainie. It won't make any difference."

She was not about to be deterred.

"Now, Mr. House, I want you to look at your son."

John averted his eyes, which only made Rainie angry.

"Goddamn it! I said _look at him_!"

Shocked into complying, John looked at the two of them, really seeing Greg for the first time. The scars and deformities leaped out at him. How could he not have seen it before?

"Do you see any difference between us? What they did to me, they did to him first. If I couldn't have done anything to deserve this, why do you insist that your son deserved what happened to him?"

John was struck mute.

"Since you haven't read the papers, let me explain it in simple terms. A sick little girl came into the clinic. She had a simple illness and it had progressed too far. Your son had nothing to do with her case, except to say there was nothing he could do to help. The father was insane. He…" Her voice caught for a moment, and she felt House's hand touch hers.

"B-Because he was insane, he did this, to both of us. Here's the plain, unvarnished truth. He threatened to kill everyone we loved if we didn't agree to unrelenting torture. He slaughtered Dr. Cameron and my husband and daughter. He hired people to…" She swallowed, and Wilson saw her struggle with her emotions. Then she gritted her teeth and went on, spitting out each phrase. "…to beat us… starve us… _rape _us… torture us. He didn't want us to die. He wanted us to suffer. He succeeded. We suffer."

John House looked away, as his wife began to cry.

"If you don't hear anything else I've said, you'd by God better listen to this. There is nothing Greg did or could have done that would have changed what happened or how it turned out.

"He is in excruciating pain all the time. Every minute. Right now, he's feeling more agony than you've felt in your entire life. On the worst day you ever had, you felt better than he feels on his best. That pain never goes away and never will. And you say he has no backbone. Your son _chose_ to endure this. He suffered for _years—_and continues to suffer—so you could be alive to sit here smugly and tell him he deserved it.

"This is my home now, too, and if it were up to me, I'd just as soon you left it. As far as I'm concerned, you are not welcome here unless you can come to terms with the sacrifice your son made and what it's cost him."

They all sat stunned for a moment. Then Blythe House, who was beginning to pull herself together, spoke up.

"Greg, dear, you know your father loves you."

House kept his head down. Rainie lifted hers higher, her face extremely pale and her eyes flashing.

"Mrs. House, I'm sorry if this is upsetting to you, but if that's your definition of love, you need to go get yourself a new dictionary. If you can't see how your husband's behavior is hurting your son, then there's nothing else I can say. I simply do not understand how you can sit there and allow him to be abused all over again. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to be sick."

When House reached out to touch her, she brushed his hand away. Grabbing his walker from next to his chair, she stumbled away from the table and back toward the bathroom.

House waved his hand frenetically at Wilson, gesturing for Rainie's walker from the far side of the table.

"I'll go," said Wilson, starting to rise.

"No," said House, firmly. "You won't."

Reluctantly, Wilson handed her much-smaller walker around to him, and House left the table to follow after Rainie, who by this time could be heard, quite clearly, vomiting in the bathroom.

"Is she always that… emotional?" asked John House, a suggestion in his voice that perhaps she wasn't terribly stable.

Wilson had had enough.

"No, Mr. House, she's not. Only when she's confronted with stupidity and meanness. I have to say, and I'm sorry to say it in front of you, Blythe, but I agree with every word she said, including the part about your not being welcome here. Your son has been hurt enough. He doesn't need your bullshit on top of it."

He stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair in the process, and stomped off into the kitchen, leaving House's parents alone at the table to listen to Wilson slamming dishes around in the kitchen and Rainie throwing up in the bathroom.

By the time House got to her, Rainie was retching into the toilet and sobbing uncontrollably, her face shiny with perspiration.

He came up behind her, and set the walker aside, leaning on the sink with his left arm. After running hot water for a moment, he drenched a washcloth and then managed to wring it out by standing on his own for a few seconds before balancing himself again with his left arm.

When she gasped for air between sobs and heaves, he reached around her with his right hand and dabbed the washcloth to her mouth, wiping her face gently. After rinsing out the cloth, he replaced the warm water with cold. Waiting for another pause, he repeated his gesture, this time mopping the cold cloth over her swollen eyes.

"You're remarkable," he said, in a quiet voice that was only slightly louder than a whisper.

She snorted, between sobs. "Oh, I'm sure. And you know what? You're a lousy judge of character. I throw a temper tantrum, behave rudely to your parents, make myself sick and you call me remarkable."

"No, I mean it. You really don't suffer fools gladly, do you?"

"Not as a rule, no. Never been one of my strongest character traits."

"I stand by what I said."

She snorted again. "Shows how little you know. Most people find that kind of behavior offensive. Especially when I insult their parents."

"I'm not most people. And I'm serious."

She looked over at him, smiled weakly and shrugged her shoulders. "Chacun à son goût," she said, as she turned her head and vomited.

When John and Blythe House finally realized no one was going to come back and talk to them, they quietly got up from the table, gathered their things and left.

**T**wo days later, the phone rang and Linda picked it up.

"Oh, hi, Mrs. House. Yes, just a minute. Doc! It's your mom."

Taking a deep, unwilling breath, House picked up the living room extension.

"Hi, Mom."

"Hi, Greg."

There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

"Greg, I'm sorry things went so badly the other night."

"Yeah, me too."

"Is Miss Adler feeling better now?"

"She's fine, Mom. What's going on? Why did you call?"

"You father and I have been talking it over, ever since the other night. I-I just wanted you to know he's sorry… and so am I. I guess neither of us quite realized… or maybe we just didn't want to."

"Mom, I don't want an apology. Just being treated civilly would be enough. From Dad, I mean."

"He does feel bad, but he's not good at these things. I don't know if he's got it in him to behave differently, Greg. Old dogs, you know."

House paused and thought a moment before speaking.

"I can't have Rainie upset like this, so maybe it really would be better if he didn't visit."

Once he'd said the words, he couldn't retract them. After Rainie stood up for him when he wouldn't defend himself, the least he could do was keep her from being exposed to the tension his father brought to their home. An enormous sense of relief flooded him at the thought of possibly never having to deal with his father again.

"Maybe you're right. I-I… I'm really sorry, Greg. What Miss Adler said… I think she was right… I just didn't see how much your father was hurting you… I knew what was in your father's heart, but you two have always rubbed each other wrong, so I…"

"You did what you thought was right," he said.

"Well, I guess that's all. I just wanted to let you know I love you."

"I know you do, Mom."

"And Greg…?"

"Yes?"

"About Miss Adler…?" She couldn't bring herself to ask the question she really wanted to ask.

"What about her?" He could sense where this was going, and he didn't know how to answer without giving away a little more of himself than he wanted to.

"She's… Well, I feel very sorry for her."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said, vaguely amused at how his mother veered away from what she really wanted to ask. "She's not big on pity."

"Oh," said his mother. And then, "How does she deal with it—with everything?"

House took control of the conversation.

"The same way I do, Mom. We have people come in—therapists, doctors, assistants."

"That's not really what I meant, dear."

"I know it isn't, but that's how I'm going to answer."

"You and she… you really care about her, don't you?"

"Yes, Mom, I really do." He paused, deciding as he thought about it to avoid allowing his mother in on his real feelings about Rainie. "She's my patient, and she's been through a lot."

That was as far as he was willing to go.

After a few more platitudes, the call ended.

**W**hen the Bechstein first arrived, it sat untouched in the corner of the living room for two hours. Finally, House slid onto the bench and reverently lifted the lid to expose the keyboard. Without pressing hard enough to make a sound, he ran his fingers lightly over the keys, as if limbering up.

Then he closed his eyes and played.

Rainie, who had lifted her leg nearly a foot off the bed, was just finishing up her morning therapy session. As the rich sounds reverberated off the hardwood floors, she began to weep—whether out of happiness that Greg could play like this again or out of frustration that she couldn't, she wasn't quite sure.

He played for close to an hour, by which time Rainie had settled onto the couch, a soft, fringed afghan covering her legs, her eyes closed, just listening. Much of the time, the music was harshly angry and loud; at other times, it was plaintive and melancholy. The only thing it wasn't was light and joyful.

After he was done, his eyes glistened with emotion. His neck, shoulders, arms and hands were screaming for a massage and another dose of Vicodin.

But that was all right with him.

Since that first time, he had played every day for at least an hour.


	77. Chapter 77: A Change in the Weather

A Change in the Weather…

"**Y**es, just a minute. Mr. Fields, it's Sherry Corbett on line 2. I'll put her through."

Literary agent Sherry Corbett had a proposal she was pretty sure Fields & Marx were going to find very interesting. They did.

At a meeting the next day, they discussed it. It was a good proposal—an interesting idea well presented. But most of all, it had a hook.

"You know who this is, don't you?" asked Corbett.

Fields certainly did. Marx wasn't so sure. They enlightened him.

"Holy crap!" he said, grabbing the proposal and looking at it again.

"Now here's the tricky part," said Corbett. "She states explicitly in her proposal that she will not be available for any press tours or face-to-face interviews. A few phoners, maybe, but no guarantees, even on that."

"Whoa. Can't say that I blame her, given what's happened," said Marx. "But that puts us in a spot on publicity."

Fields, who was the quicker of the two partners, had already come up with some ideas.

"Not necessarily. I think we've got a couple ways to go here, and it's a win-win, no matter what we do. Either we don't say a word, and figure the press might pick up on it by themselves—certainly the _Times_ will, and the tabloids. She's pretty direct in her introduction about what happened, and there may be even more in the book, so they should be able to put two and two together.

"The other way is to announce up front just exactly who she is and what happened to her—and that she will not speak to the press under any circumstances—she wants the work to speak for itself. Then, the less we say, the more interest it will generate. Kind of like Garbo."

"Garbo's good," agreed Marx. "Who else is going after this, Sherry?"

Corbett named three other top publishers interested in _A Question of Evil_. The bidding war was fierce, but Fields & Marx won out. If she hadn't been already, this would have made Maureen Adler a very wealthy woman.

**T**hey finally met their client on a snowy Monday afternoon. Unwilling to repeat her _New York Times_ fiasco by venturing out, she insisted they come to her place in Jersey. Sherry Corbett, who had already met Rainie Adler, had prepped them for the meeting.

After two knocks, the door was answered by a very tall, brown-haired woman, who introduced herself as Rainie's nurse, Linda McAllister. Grudgingly, she let them in. After hanging up their coats on an antique coat rack by the door, they settled on the long, comfortable sofa situated in the middle of an expensively furnished—if quirkily attractive—living room. Then the nurse left them to their own devices.

A coffee pot, cups, plates, napkins and pastries sat attractively arranged on a tray in front of them. The tray was bright red, with colorful cartoon figures on it, which Will Fields recognized as the Astérix characters designed by Albert Uderzo. The blue coffee carafe was Rotpunkt, while the white cups and plates were some kind of hand-made ceramics, simple in design but somehow a little different from the norm. A travel mug sat next to the coffee service. Artie Marx, who had both a weight problem and a terrible sweet tooth, immediately reached for an enticing apple tart sprinkled with powdered sugar. Will Fields glared at him.

"They're here," the nurse said off in the distance. Fields thought he heard a soft voice say, "okay," but he wasn't sure. Marx, whose hearing was better, heard a gentle "I'll be right out" after the "okay."

The two high-powered publishers were surprisingly apprehensive. There was something about this book, this client and this situation that was a little nerve-wracking. Maybe it was the suspense. Maybe it was not knowing what this woman was going to look like. It was obvious from her writing, and from her insistence that she not be interviewed, that the injuries had been pretty disastrous. If they responded badly, would they ruin the deal? What was the right way to act? Sherry Corbett had told them to act naturally… but if the injuries were that bad, how could they?

It didn't help that the place was warm, really warm. Sherry Corbett had warned them about that, too. Rainie Adler chilled easily after being starved for three years and left to sleep on a cold concrete floor.

After what seemed to be forever, they heard an odd ka-thumping sound headed toward them, growing louder with each ka-thump. Strangely, the sound of the walker moving toward them seemed to mimic their own heartbeats.

This was ridiculous. They'd met with prime ministers and movie stars. Why would this one woman make them so uncomfortable? In a way, they recognized that their feelings actually boded well for the book. If they were this intrigued, how would the reading public react?

_Don't stand up. Move slowly. Speak quietly_, Sherry Corbett had told them. _Wait for her to make the first move before you do anything_.

Rainie Adler entered the room, slowly maneuvering her way to a large, plump chair to the right of the sofa. Will Fields found that Corbett's advice to act naturally was going to be hard to follow. He'd tried to prepare himself, tried to imagine what to expect, but nothing prepared him for what he saw.

The first thing he saw was the walker. Then he saw a small pair of soft suede boots under a blue woolen skirt topped by an oversized sweater and a long chiffon scarf. So far so good. But then he noticed that her right foot turned in at an unnatural angle, her foot bent so much that she seemed to be walking on her ankle.

The woman was undoubtedly damaged. After she eased herself into the chair and let go of the walker, her hands shook. The tremors took over her body, which quivered slightly from the effort to walk the modest distance from the back of the apartment to the front. On what little skin showed, the scars and deformities were apparent. The left side of her face was bruised and swollen, her left eye nearly closed—they'd already been forewarned that she'd recently undergone the first of many plastic surgeries to repair the extensive injuries she had suffered. And yet her large hazel eyes were alert and intelligent.

It was so hard not to stare.

Her glance grazed them before she looked down as if embarrassed.

"Go ahead," came the sad voice. "I know. I'm starting to get used to it."

"I-I…" said Fields. Then he pulled himself together. "I'm Will Fields." He had to suppress the automatic instinct to reach out for a handshake.

"Ah," she said, smiling as she turned to his companion. "And you must be Artie Marx."

Artie nodded, mute.

Suddenly, the phone rang and Rainie Adler jumped, her arms fluttering toward her head as she emitted a little cry. Pursing her lips, she forced her hands back to her sides.

"Damn it," she said, clearly annoyed with herself for the reaction. She bit her lower lip and took a deep breath.

"Wh-who is it, Linda?" Her voice wavered.

The answer came from some distance off.

"It's the doc, honey. Do you want to talk to him?"

She looked at her guests.

"Do you mind if I take this?"

"Go right ahead," said Artie Marx, a little relieved by the distraction. Maybe while she was on the phone they could get acclimated.

Picking up the portable extension lying next to the tray on the coffee table, she clumsily pressed the _talk _button.

"Hi, Greg… _mmm-hmm_… just getting started… _uh-huh_… fine for now… a little swelling, but Linda says it's normal… no, no fever… I'm good, thanks… it'll be all right… no, it's okay—you didn't need to stay home for this… I'll be fine… you know me—not much appetite… whatever you bring home is good… _oooh_—biscuits—that should make Linda happy… yes, I'm sure… everything's groovy… see you around five…"

She smiled as she disconnected the phone.

Somehow the call broke the ice. By the time they left ninety minutes later, Will Fields and Artie Marx had almost forgotten their initial shock, finding in Rainie Adler a sharp mind, a pithy sense of humor and a forceful personality.

And interestingly—not to mention great from a PR perspective—Adler told them she intended to use the $10.6 million advance to start a nonprofit foundation to support people recovering from catastrophic injuries.

**C**hanges in the weather wreaked havoc on both of them; as each winter front threatened, they felt it vibrating through their bones and nerves. Some days, they seldom got out of bed. On such days, Linda often helped Rainie into the recliner in House's room or gently positioned her among the pillows next to House, and the two of them rode it out together.

Sometimes, the pain was so intense, they moaned in harmony. No amount of Vicodin seemed to dull the ache or ease the throbbing. Synthia Little had recommended they each get a pain pump, which they could control up to a point, but on bad days that point was reached far too quickly.

One night in December, House awoke feeling particularly dreadful. Through the wall, he could hear Rainie. He felt pressure behind his eyes, and mentally ran over his body to catalogue what hurt the most. Today it was his feet and legs, his shoulders and the back of his head. And his thigh, of course. Always his thigh.

Her cries pierced him. Once again, he cursed himself that he hadn't been able to find a decent treatment plan to ease her fibromyalgia symptoms, that she continued to suffer more than he thought she should.

He looked around for the Vicodin, but didn't see the familiar bottle. He called for the night nurse.

"Marina!"

Maybe she was in with Rainie, because she didn't respond.

He waited a while, breathing cautiously, hoping everything would settle down. No such luck.

He tried again.

"Marina!"

Still no response. Rainie's cries got louder.

Against his better judgment, he reached for the walker and pulled himself up out of the bed, every nerve ending screaming at him that this was a very, _very_ bad idea.

Somehow, he got himself out the door of his room and into the hall. His head was whirling, and he felt himself getting queasy from the pain. She'd better get to him soon, because he wasn't going to last long like this.

"Marina!"

Nothing.

As he headed past Rainie's room, he glanced through the partially open door and saw her, eyes shut tight as she clutched the covers. At the sound of his walker, she turned her head toward the door. Their eyes met for a moment in complete understanding just before a pain spasm struck her and she flung her head back into the pillow with a gasp and a loud groan. Marina was nowhere to be seen.

He soldiered on toward the living room, and saw the nurse sound asleep on the couch.

Enraged, he stumbled toward her.

"Wake up!" He slammed the side of the walker into the back of the couch, causing her to start. "Wake up, damn you! Wake up!"

When she realized what had happened, she sniffled an apology.

"Oh, Dr. House. I'm so sorry. I must have dozed off for a minute."

"Not acceptable, and it wasn't a minute," he said furiously. "I can't have you here if you're not going to be available when we need you. Get out! You're fired!"

"But Dr. House…"

"No excuses. Get out! Now!"

Shocked, she grabbed her coat and bag from the closet and stumbled out the front door.

As the door closed behind her, he realized that in his anger he'd made a strategic mistake. Now there was no one here to help either one of them.


	78. Chapter 78: A Very Very Bad Idea

**A Very _Very _Bad Idea…**

**W**incing in frustration and pain, House got himself to the phone and speed-dialed Wilson next door. The phone rang four times and then the machine picked up. After waiting impatiently for the end of the message, House bellowed into the phone.

"Wilson! It's House! Wake up. Need you over here. Now! Come on. Wake up! _Goddammit, Wilson, wake up!_"

He slammed the phone down, not sure if Wilson had even heard the message. Rainie's cries were getting louder. It was so unusual for Wilson not to answer that House was at a loss. In his agitation, he realized he couldn't remember Wilson's pager number.

A wave of pain engulfed him, the world turned white and he retched, leaning forward over the walker. His moans, mingled with Rainie's, filled his ears. Oh, this really _is_ a bad one, he thought, as he could feel himself beginning to heave. He was dizzy and sweating as he vomited all over the newly varnished floor.

Great, he thought, once he'd finally stopped throwing up. Now, how am I going to get around _that_?

He briefly considered heading back toward Rainie and trying to help her himself, but he knew that sooner or later he had to get to Wilson. If only the front door didn't seem so far off. His shoulders ached, his feet throbbed and his head hurt. And he still felt nauseated. Odd were good, he realized, that he'd throw up again before too long.

Taking a deep breath, he pointed himself toward the front of the apartment, working his way slowly past the unpleasant glop on the floor. An eternity plus a few dozen grunts and curses later, he got to the door. Flinging it open, he was dismayed to see wet snow all over the stoop. He could hear Rainie clearly from here. Not only was she crying, but he could tell she was having the same reaction to her pain he'd just had to his. He hoped for her sake that she'd managed to lean over the side of the bed before she'd thrown up.

With trepidation, he tested the walker on the snow. No ice underneath, thank goodness. But in his urgency to find Marina, he'd left his slippers in the bedroom. No going back for them now, he decided as he slid his bare left foot onto the snow. The bitter cold stabbed into his foot like an ice pick. Gritting his teeth, he braced himself and brought his right foot forward into the snow. He could feel the icy sting catapult up into his right thigh; he almost collapsed as the shooting pain nearly knocked him out.

Shutting his eyes and trying to gain control of himself, he felt another wave of nausea overtake him. He swallowed and tried not to be sick.

_Breathe, dammit, breathe_. He seemed to have forgotten how. His ears were ringing so loudly, they were making him dizzy, and he couldn't see—everything was too bright. He forced himself onward, panting as he simultaneously sweated and froze.

Six more steps and he'd be at Wilson's door. After four of those six steps, he felt his stomach tighten. He turned his head to the right and threw up on the sidewalk.

Just then, it started snowing in earnest.

As he felt the snow coming down heavily all over him, he inched forward until he'd made it to the other door. Leaning as much of his weight as he could on the left side of the walker, trying to shift away from his right leg as much as possible, he pushed the bell and pounded on the door.

_Come on, Wilson! What did you do, take a sleeping pill? Decide to go to a bar? Call a hooker? All of the above? Answer the door already!_

As he whacked the walker into the door to make a bigger noise, he heard his own front door slam shut, blown by a gust of cold wind.

"Goddammit!" he yelled, now seriously concerned he might get stuck out here all night. "Wilson! Wake up!" He pounded and rang and yelled and yelled and rang and pounded until his hands were bleeding and his throat was raw. At least that pain took his attention away from all the others and from the ongoing nausea.

Finally—_finally!_—the door opened, and a shocked and disheveled James Wilson stood staring at House, who by this time was freezing cold, extremely wet and nearly covered in snow.

"Good God, House! What's going on?"

"G-get your key. I've locked myself out." His voice was barely a raspy whisper after all the misuse.

"Can't the nurse…?" Quickly, Wilson cast a longing glance over his shoulder toward the comfort of his bedroom.

"Gone. Fired. I'm stupid, okay? Just hurry."

His teeth were chattering, and his nose had turned a bright red, although the rest of his face was an unhealthy shade of gray.

After grabbing the keys off the hook by the door, Wilson helped his friend back into his own apartment, where House leaned against the wall for a moment to gather himself.

He didn't look good. In fact, he looked awful. His eyes were staring into space, and Wilson saw a feverish patch of pink on each cheek. But when Wilson reached out to check House's forehead, House slapped his hand aside.

"Not me, you idiot. Rainie."

By this time, her cries had shifted into low screams. House leaned on his walker, and started toward Rainie's room, Wilson right behind him. As they got near the ugly-looking mess on the floor, House edged his walker around it. Wilson said nothing as he bypassed it.

He looks like he's going to fall over, thought Wilson. What the hell happened with the nurse?

Nothing if not stubborn, House kept going until he got to Rainie's room. Throwing the door wide, he lurched inside to find Rainie curled up in a ball of pain in the bed. Her eyes bore into him, pleading for surcease. He couldn't bear it.

Swaying as he tried to keep his balance, he hissed, "Do something!"

Wilson ran over to Rainie, who barely acknowledged his presence. The floor near the head of her bed mimicked the living room floor.

"Where does it hurt?"

"_Unhhhhhhh!_" she screamed unhelpfully.

"God damn it, Wilson! Give her something!"

"What's she had already? I can't give her anything until I know what she's had and when."

"Nothing but Vicodin at about nine," he said, thinking back. "But it didn't help. Give her oxy or morphine."

"There isn't any," said Wilson a little frantically, starting to pick up on House's desperation. "We're low on supplies over here. I was going to bring some back tomorrow."

Fighting down the desire to panic, House took a gulp of air. No drugs? They weren't going to make it without stronger drugs.

He considered asking Wilson to call for an ambulance and get them to the hospital. But wait. Always fearful of being without, he'd built up a little stash of unused drugs, hiding them in the kitchen. He just couldn't remember exactly what he'd hoarded.

"Kitchen. Over the fridge. Wooden box," he said. By now, he could barely talk, and he could feel himself starting to lose his grip on the walker. If he didn't sit down soon, he was going to fall. Or throw up again. Maybe both.

"I'll get it," said Wilson.

"Damn right you are. I'm not going anywhere."

House inched forward toward the end of Rainie's bed, leaving large wet puddles on the hardwood floor.

When he finally got to the bed, he leaned against it in relief. How long did it take to get a box down from a cupboard?

Behind him, Rainie was crying out in desperation, her hands clutching at the quilt. His own pain was so bad, he could no longer talk without groaning, and he wasn't willing to groan, and so he said nothing.

Forever later, Wilson returned with the wooden box.

Wilson went straight to Rainie. As he checked her vitals, he saw House, out of the corner of his eye, slide slowly down the edge of the bed onto the floor, landing with a soft thud.

Very gently, Wilson pulled Rainie's left arm out from underneath the covers. Even such delicate and subtle movements caused her extreme pain—she exhaled small anguished cries every inch or so, her breath hitching with each intake of air. Finally, he got her arm out, and laid it gently on the bed.

Opening the box, he took out an antiseptic swab, ripping open the small package to dab at her arm, and then pulled out a new syringe and a small bottle. Filling the syringe and flicking away the air bubbles, he injected Rainie with morphine.

After watching her closely for a few moments, he heard a sigh as the opiate hit her system. Slowly, her eyes glazed over and she took a few long, deep breaths of relief as the pain subsided. Looking at him through heavy-lidded eyes, she whispered, "Thank you… thank you…"

Now for House. Wilson turned to find his friend sprawled on the floor unconscious, lying almost face down in a pool of ice-cold water, his bare feet in the middle of the muck near the head of the bed.

"Wake up, House!"

But House was gone.

Leaving him just long enough to run to the bathroom and grab as many towels as he could carry, Wilson folded one towel and put it under House's head to get his face out of the water, and then used the others to sop off the excess and to clean Rainie's vomit off the floor and House's feet. Once he'd laid towels all around House, he ran out again in search of blankets and warm clothes. Returning quickly, he found House still wet and shivering… and now moaning in pain.

Pulling him up into a sitting position, Wilson started removing his pajamas.

"Come on, big guy. Wake up for just a minute. Help me get these wet things off you."

House's eyes opened slightly, and he struggled to stand up. Wilson put an arm around his friend's waist, and, with an effort, pulled him up.

After drying House off as much as he could, he managed to get the taller man out of his now-drenched pajamas and into dry, warm sweats. Through it all, House shivered and groaned. Out of the corner of his eye, Wilson saw Rainie watching them, her eyes glassy from the narcotic. Her body was now limp and her face relaxed, no longer contorted with pain, but her eyes showed concern.

Once House was changed, he slumped in Wilson's grasp, becoming a nearly dead weight. Realizing House couldn't possibly get back to his bedroom under his own steam, Wilson also knew he didn't have the strength to get him there. He could see only one solution, one he hoped wasn't going to create an entirely different kind of problem.

"House, listen to me."

House looked at him, but Wilson wasn't sure he was even aware of his surroundings. He was definitely running a fever—a high one, by the feel of it—and the cold, pain and exertion hadn't done him any favors.

"I can't get you back to your room. Is it a problem if I put you in here with Rainie?"

House closed his eyes and then slowly reopened them. He needed to lie down. Right now.

"Okay," he muttered, too tired to think of any alternatives.

With Wilson supporting him, House got around the bed to the far side. It took a good couple of minutes to get House into the bed, Rainie's eyes on them the entire time. Finally, Wilson got him under the covers, gently laying his head down on the soft pillow.

"How's the pain?" he asked, once he'd gotten House situated. _Why did he ask when the answer was so obvious?_

"It's bad," whispered House through his moans. "Very bad." He closed his eyes, and Wilson saw a tear slide down his cheek. Rainie turned her head toward him, her drowsy eyes never leaving his face. She reached out and laid her hand on his arm.

Pausing for just a minute to think it through, Wilson made up his mind. He got the wooden box, swabbed House's arm and gave him a shot of morphine. Within minutes, the moaning had ceased and both patients were asleep.


	79. Chapter 79: Must Have Been a Nightmare

Must Have Been a Nightmare…

**H**e was in the hospital, in the big hospital bed, with Rainie tucked under his arm. He could feel her warmth up against his left side. Must have been a nightmare before, when he thought she wasn't there. Funny how the mind works.

Opening his eyes, he was surprised to see a butter yellow ceiling instead of the hospital's sterile ceiling tiles. And the bed seemed a lot more comfortable than he remembered. But he still felt that warmth along his left side. Turning his head, testing, he found soft, curly hair tickling his left cheek. His arm was around her, which seemed right.

But where was he?

Looking around, he realized he was in Rainie's room. In Rainie's bed. But he couldn't remember how he got here. His body was lethargic, and, although he knew the fact that he was in her bed with her ought to matter for some reason, he couldn't remember why, and decided he didn't really care, as long as he didn't have to move anytime soon.

Something about snow.

The morning light beat against the window blinds, making the room bright. He felt Rainie nestling against him, making a throaty, comforting sound.

She began to stir, her eyelids fluttering as she stretched her arms. When her eyes opened, she initially showed no particular surprise at seeing him next to her. Then her eyes opened wide.

"I have no idea," he said, before she could speak. "All I remember is snow."

Snow?

Just then, they heard footsteps, and Wilson came through the door carrying a breakfast tray, which he set down on the dresser. Something smelled extraordinarily delicious.

For a man who hadn't slept most of the night, Wilson looked pretty good. After cleaning up the water and the rest of the mess on the bedroom floor, he'd gotten a warm, damp cloth and gently washed Rainie's face and hands, then doing the same for House, adding antiseptic for his injured hands. They slept through it, which was a blessing. He stayed in Rainie's room for nearly an hour, just to make sure they were both okay. Then he slipped out, cleaned up the living room floor and tried to sleep on the couch for a while.

He checked on them again when he woke up three hours later at 6:30. At eight, Linda arrived and he told her what he knew of the evening's adventures. At eight-fifteen, Wilson ran next door to shower, change clothes and pick up some coffee. At nine, Evan walked in the front door; he was making himself useful, touching up the varnish on the discolored spot that stained the wood floor in the living room. About nine-thirty, Wilson decided to fix breakfast. He might not have been there for them quickly enough last night, but he was damned sure he was going to make up for it today.

"How's the morning treating you?" he asked the dozing pair, which was so much better than asking how they were feeling.

"Sleepy," said Rainie groggily, closing her eyes again.

"How's the pain this morning?"

His patients took a mental inventory, and reported back that it was starting out to be a typical day, which meant a lot of pain, but so far nothing unmanageable. During this interchange, House decided that whatever had brought him into Rainie's bed must not be too worrisome, or Wilson would be making tut-tut noises instead of breakfast.

"Anything else to report?" asked Wilson.

"Not sure," said House, uncertainly, still trying to figure out what was going on. "I do… uh… have a question, though."

"It'll have to wait a minute," said Wilson, coming around to the far side of the bed. "Open." He stuck a thermometer in House's mouth.

"Wha's dis aw abou?"

"Shut up," said Wilson, affectionately.

Temperature was still way up. Not good. House sneezed.

"Okay, now. What was your question?"

"What's going on? Why are you here? Why am I… here?" His throat hurt. A lot. And, now that he thought about it, so did his hands and his chest. Looking down, he was surprised to see nasty-looking cuts and scrapes on both hands.

Wilson smiled to himself. Just like the man. He risks his own health to help Rainie, and then conveniently forgets it.

"That's three questions, but if you insist, I'll answer. You got me over here in the middle of the night to help Rainie. Don't you remember? It was snowing."

Snow. Oh, yes. He remembered snow.

"But… why am I…?"

"In Rainie's bed? Because you collapsed on the floor, and I couldn't get you any farther."

House vaguely remembered water, in addition to snow. He closed his eyes again, trying to get his bearings.

"Nope. No more sleeping for now. Sit up, you two. Breakfast."

Rainie blinked her eyes, but remained nestled against House, who was staring at the ceiling again, as if unsure about the reality of the situation.

"Come on. Time for breakfast. I didn't do all this work to have it get cold."

They struggled to sit up. Wilson brought the tray to the bed and laid it over Rainie's legs.

"I'll be right back with the other one," he said. And he was.

There was more food than either of them could begin to eat, but because it was smelled so good, they tried. Wilson was no fool. He knew they had both lost their dinners the night before and needed sustenance.

In a whimsical state of mind, Wilson had made pancakes that looked like Mickey Mouse, merging three pancakes—one large one for the face and two smaller ones for the ears—using raisins for eyes, nose, mouth and to decorate the ears. The coffee was Wilson's own, and it was magnificent. In addition, Wilson had scrambled some eggs with salmon, scallions and dill, adding slices of Clementine oranges on the side.

For a night that had gone so very badly, the morning was starting out very well.

Except that now Rainie had a fever, too, and House was definitely sick. It turned out Marina had a bad case of the flu, which was why she hadn't been able to stay awake. And in the few days she'd insisted on coming to work while contagious, she'd managed to infect both House and Rainie.

For two weeks, they felt miserable—sneezing, coughing, aching, sniffling and rasping. Three days after the snow adventure, Wilson got concerned that, with their compromised respiratory systems, the flu might turn into pneumonia for one or the other of them, so he kept a close eye on them. But, to Wilson's great relief, at the end of the two weeks, they were no worse than before.

Wilson, on the other hand, was exhausted.

**H**er book was coming along—slowly, painfully, like everything else in her life. The publishers had given her three years to complete it, and at the moment, that didn't seem like enough time. Throughout the day, Rainie read voraciously, everything from the great philosophers to eyewitness accounts at Auschwitz. House seldom saw her without a book or magazine or journal nearby.

She carved out four hours a day to do serious research and to write. In the old days, she'd have been working around the clock, but her body just wouldn't allow it now. She split the four hours into two sections.

The first section was in the morning, before physical therapy. Mornings were for research. A little breakfast and then, as House left for work, she settled in.

During her two hours in the morning, she contacted research scientists studying the brain and social scientists studying the human race. But she needed more.

Doing research was much harder than writing, she found. Again, in the old days, she'd have hopped on the subway and headed over to the NYPL or one of the other many research institutions in the city. Now she had to do it all by phone and email. And sometimes she had to grit her teeth and explain just exactly why she couldn't come there in person. She hated that part. She hated it a lot.

Every time it happened, her mind drifted back to her first real conversation with House, the one where he said, "The worst thing is the way they look at you, the way it forces you to realize how different you are from the way you were, and how conspicuous you are. When you're home, by yourself, how you look doesn't matter. You're allowed to be invisible then. For me, dealing with other people's reactions is one of the hardest things."

He'd been absolutely right. Dealing with other people was really difficult, even over the phone. Sometimes—often—she dreaded it. But it had to be done.

Afternoons—after lunch and before the afternoon PT session—were for writing. As she'd gotten comfortable with how her hands functioned on the computer keyboard, the writing flowed as it always had. A little slower, perhaps, but there was still a direct conduit from her brain to the screen.

The only real problem came when she had to write about something that was a little too close, a little too personal. Such as the day she had to write about Ingrid Betancourt, the Colombian politician who had been kidnapped and tortured for six years before finally being rescued. She'd interviewed Betancourt by email and phone as soon as she could after the news story about Betancourt's release broke. Both of them found their conversation very difficult… and very rewarding. To be able to share her experiences with someone else, someone other than House, was therapeutic. And painful.

But when it came time to write it up, she found herself drowning in emotion. At about 2:30 that afternoon, Linda heard wrenching sobs coming from the living room, where Rainie had set herself up to work. Running in from the back of the house, she saw Rainie doubled up over her laptop, her shoulders shaking and her head bobbing as the sobs turned to wails. But when Linda tried to help, Rainie shooed her away brusquely, saying, "Nothing you can do about it… so leave me alone."

Eventually, the cries died down, and she got back to work.


	80. Chapter 80: Just Another Day

Just Another Day…

**N**ow that he was back to work on a more regular basis, it was obvious to his team that he was, in many ways, the same old House—sarcastic, devious, manipulative, brilliant.

But Chase and Foreman, who had known him the longest, could see that he had been softened by his experiences. His mind was still sharp, his tongue still wicked, his diagnostic skills still unparalleled. However, some of the sheer, cussed meanness they had seen in him before the trouble started seemed to have fallen away, as if all of his rough edges had gotten knocked off. And, of course, the fact that everyone knew he really wasn't that self-centered bastard meant that some of his games had less bite than before.

Occasionally, now, he let his guard down a little when he was alone with one or the other of them—never when both were present. Occasionally, they saw in his face a fleeting lost look, as if he were overwhelmed by everything. Occasionally, when he didn't know they were looking, he smiled a small approving smile at them. And occasionally, they saw things on that face they simply didn't want to see ever, anywhere, on anyone's face.

For Foreman and Chase, the realization of what he had gone through to save their lives gave them both a new appreciation for House. It also gave them perspective on their past interactions with him—when he drove them crazy with his Machiavellian maneuvers. Although they never, ever talked about it, both of them wondered why they'd hadn't been able to see it before, why they hadn't realized just what the man was made of.

Foreman, in particular, was reflective, although it was not in his nature to look inward. He had fought so hard to avoid being like House, but during the past two years it had ever so slowly dawned on him that he'd never really had a clue about who House actually was. Yes, House had _behaved _like an ass… but that didn't necessarily make him an ass. Maybe the games, the pushiness, the manipulations, the irresponsible behavior all had a point. Maybe working for House had forced Foreman to see things in a different way. Maybe his horizons had been dramatically expanded. Maybe the point was that nothing mattered except the patient, and finding a cure, if possible, for each case that came their way. Maybe he'd become a better doctor—a much better doctor—because he'd been around this man.

Maybe being like House wasn't a bad thing.

Chase, who had always had a certain grudging admiration for House, even at his most difficult, now found himself in unabashed awe of his boss. There was no way in hell House would ever let him express that admiration… any more than he would let Chase show sympathy for House's physical limitations. So, as always, Chase kept his feelings to himself.

But on the rare occasions when House smiled, even though the smiles seldom went all the way up to his eyes, he felt glad. Glad that he was here in this place at this time, working for this man. Glad to see House begin to carve out a new life, to regain a fraction of what had been lost. And mostly, glad that House had survived, even if it cost him so much just to get through the day. But sometimes, at moments like these, when House smiled, Chase had to turn his head and fight the overwhelming urge to cry.

Devi, quite simply, liked House. She'd liked him—and feared him—from the moment she'd met him. His laudable behavior under unimaginable circumstances, his brilliant medical mind, his insistence on staying focused on solving the patient's problem, his wittiness, his cleverness, his ability to look beyond the obvious, the veiled pain in his eyes—all of it made him a compelling person to be around. She'd given up trying to imagine what life _before_ must have been like. All she knew was what she saw. And what she saw, she admired and liked. He was a puzzle she knew she'd never figure out. But she intended to keep on trying.

Her wedding to Frank Durante was coming up the end of December. Both Chase and Foreman had told her not to expect House to acknowledge it. The House they knew would never have been concerned with their personal lives… unless it was to butt in where he wasn't wanted or make crude jokes about highly intimate things. So she was startled when, a few days before the wedding, a small package arrived at her home. The return address was a post office box number she didn't recognize, but she saw the name "House" writ small next to the address.

Later that evening, she and Frank opened the box. Inside they found three things, numbered 1, 2 and 3:

1. a small envelope, addressed to both of them

2. a small, peculiarly wrapped gift

3. a card with House's shaky handwriting on the envelope, addressed to Devi alone

They started with the small envelope. When they opened it and pulled out a check for $10,000, their jaws dropped open. There was no note, but on the memo line, in House's scrawl, were the words, "For the future."

Then the gift. It was wrapped, badly, as if House had attempted to do it himself, in the color comics section from the previous Sunday's paper. Not surprisingly, somehow, the gift was a puzzle—a custom-made jigsaw puzzle, carved out of sterling silver, the pieces loosely wrapped in tissue paper. Curious, they immediately began fitting it together. When the puzzle was done, they found two short sentences—just nine words—engraved across the center of the puzzle.

The first line said:

"Do the right thing."

The second line said:

"This isn't simply a test."

Finally, flabbergasted, they opened the envelope containing Devi's card. They were greeted by a photo of the hind end of a donkey. Inside, they found this short message.

"If you tell anyone about this, you're fired. Oh, and I'll cancel payment on the check. —GH"

**O**ne day in January, in the middle of the afternoon, the phone in House's office rang. Chase, Foreman and Devi, who were next door researching unusual presentations of prostate cancer, heard him pick it up.

It was obvious from the way he answered that he'd read the caller ID, and from the content of the conversation that he was talking to Wilson.

"Hi," he said. "What's up?"

A slight pause.

"Sure, I could do that. Do you want me to see if I can find anything in the literature about it? … Uh-huh. … Okay. That makes sense. … Have you thought about actual changes in the way the brain functions? … Oh, good. Yes, that's good. … Okay, I'll bring it home with me later. See you in a couple of hours."

As he finished up the call, Wilson walked into the conference room, startling all three of them.

"What's up? I heard you've got a possible… What? Why are you all looking at me?"

Foreman stuttered. "W-we thought he was on the phone with you."

"Me? No, why?"

A little embarrassed at having been caught eavesdropping, they mumbled something about prostate cancer, and let it lie.

Two weeks later, in the late morning, as they were talking things through at the whiteboard, House's phone rang next door. Devi was closest to House's office.

"Raja, phone," said House.

Devi hopped up and ran into House's office.

"Dr. House's office. Oh, hi, Linda. What? Sure."

She set the phone down on his desk.

"Dr. House, it's Linda. She says she needs to talk to you about something. It's important."

Grunting, House hauled himself up on his crutches and made his way into the office.

"Hey, Linda. What is it? _What?_"

His voice suddenly became tight, and Devi, who hadn't yet made it back into the conference room, turned around to see a look of concern cross his features. Her eyes darted to Chase and Foreman in the other room. They sat motionless, staring in the direction of House's office, listening intently to his end of the conversation.

"Okay, tell me exactly what happened. How did it start?"

There was a pause.

"Where did you find her? Any blood?"

She saw House take a deep breath and forcibly calm himself down.

"Uh-huh… No, no, it's all right. You handled it fine. See what you can do to make her more comfortable until I can get there. Give her another dose if it doesn't subside right away. I shouldn't be more than about 20 minutes. Pull the shades, and keep her cool and quiet. Linda—stay with her, won't you? She shouldn't be alone. Let her know I'm on my way."

After he hung up, he called into the other room.

"Gotta go. Call me at home when you come up with something. We'll finish this over the phone in an hour or so."

Then he turned abruptly and left.

A few weeks later, when the phone rang in House's office, they heard him answer on speakerphone. The voice on the other end was soft and melodious.

"Hi," said the voice.

"Hi… What's up?"

Not that they were intentionally trying to listen in, or anything. No, of course not. But the conversation was so… well… odd… they couldn't help themselves.

Besides, it made House laugh.

"Linda and I are trying to dust and we can't reach the top shelf. Any chance you've got a giraffe on you anywhere? We could really use a giraffe right about now."

That's when it happened. House laughed.

He picked up the receiver and disconnected the speaker, so the eavesdroppers in the next room could hear only his end of things.

"A giraffe? No, I can't say that I've seen any giraffes loose around here…"

Chuckling, he rotated his chair and looked out the window, as if actually expecting to see a giraffe stride through the courtyard.

"Nope, no giraffes. Would a gazelle do? ... Oh, not tall enough? ... Yes, I see… You could always get it a 37-foot scarf… yes, and little booties… How about a tail-warmer? … Yes, that would work, too… Well, if I run across any, I'll send them your way… What? … No, I am not. I don't care what you say—I am _not _an idiot… Hmmm? … I don't know. Not beets. I hate pink teeth. Something else… Yeah, okay. Bye."

When he hung up the phone, his team saw that he was smiling. Really smiling. All the way up to his eyes.

And then, about a month after that, late in the afternoon, he placed a call, leaning back in his desk chair, his feet propped up on the ottoman next to the desk. His voice was extremely quiet, and they strained to hear—although, if asked, they would have denied it.

"Hi. It's me… That _was_ pretty obvious, and you're a showoff… So how'd you do? … A scale? Which one? … Not surprised. I always found E-flat easier, too. Fingers fit on the keys better… How did it go? … Me, too… What about the article? … That bad, huh? Why'd they even send it to you if it's hopeless? … Can you do anything with it?"

Suddenly, his voice got louder and the tone of it was strained. Three heads snapped toward his office in time to see him abruptly sit up and lean forward, his whole body tensing up.

"Hey! Are you there…? Answer me!"

There was a long pause, during which he didn't move. Then, suddenly, he exhaled a long breath.

"What happened?! Are you all right?"

His voice grew quiet again, and he leaned back once more.

"What? … Oh, sure… Understandable with all the exercise you've been doing. Let's try a different approach—yes, _another_ different approach—see if we can get you on some better meds for it, okay? Can't have you dropping the phone like that. You'll give me a heart attack… Yeah, I know. I'll do some more research and see if I can't find something different, maybe something experimental, something that won't mess up your head too much… Yes, that's good…"

His voice got even quieter, so quiet his team could barely make out what he was saying, and the tone of it was soft and tender.

"See you when I get home. I shouldn't be too much longer. Keep the home fires burning, and leave a light in the window for your wandering boy."


	81. Chapter 81: Enough

Enough…

**O**n a day after winter ceded to spring, Linda answered the phone and took another message from George Carter. From the kitchen, she felt House's eyes on her, and caught his subtle glance and nodded. Again. He'd been calling every day or so for weeks. And every time he called, Rainie got agitated.

An hour later, while Claudia DuBois was in Rainie's room for morning massage and therapy, House used his walker to go into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator door, he grabbed a can of ginger ale to settle the queasiness in his stomach brought on by the pain meds.

"What are we going to do about this?" asked Linda.

"Not sure."

"She gets so upset when I give her the messages, but it doesn't seem right not to tell her he's called."

House got that look on his face, the one that Linda couldn't read.

"We can't keep buying pottery for her to break. Well, actually, we can—God knows we can afford it—but it seems a waste of cheap ceramics. As it is, there are too many shards to fit in our plant pots. Maybe we should just buy more plants."

"**I**'ll see him."

"You sure?"

Rainie set her jaw and nodded grimly.

"Do you want to do this alone?" House searched her face for nonverbal clues. Her eyes flickered for just a fraction of a second, and he saw fear. He had his answer. No matter what her response, he was not going to leave her all alone with someone who frightened her. She'd had enough fear.

"Yes." She sounded determined.

He waited, continuing to watch her face. Her hazel eyes gazed right through him. He saw sorrow, anger and then, again, a flash of fear.

"I don't think so," he said. She looked up at him, startled. Startled and, perhaps, relieved. "If you want me to go to another room for a while, okay. But I'm staying close."

Slowly, her head tilted back as she exhaled a long, slow breath and stared at the ceiling. He thought he saw tears beginning to develop in her eyes.

They sat like that for a long while, Rainie staring at the ceiling and House staring at Rainie.

"Okay," she said finally. "That would be good."

**PRESS RELEASE**

For Immediate Release

The Evie Foundation today announced the appointment of its board of directors.

The nonprofit foundation, recently formed with $10.6 million in seed money, was created to provide medical and psychological assistance, and to support research into better methods of recovery, for people who have survived catastrophic injuries.

The newly named board members are Drs. Gregory House, Lisa Cuddy, Karen Langley, Jacey Liu, James Wilson and Ian Yeung, plus journalist Evan Schuster and founder/president of the foundation, Maureen Eloise Adler.

**U**nder all the other pain—the pain in his hand, the pain in his head, the pain in his back and his feet and his teeth and his toenails and his eyelashes and his hair—House could feel the sharp, burning ache of his right thigh. For a time, other agonies had masked it. Now, maybe, those injuries were getting better, allowing the old torment to break through. Or maybe the leg had gotten worse because of Pevey's assault on it.

It hadn't seemed that bad all those months ago in the hospital. Of course, in the hospital, he'd been on morphine.

Didn't matter why. What mattered was that he couldn't escape it. Even with all the other anguish that had happened since, he couldn't get away from the first and worst.

And the problem with having yet another surgery on his right hand, he realized, was that he couldn't use that hand to rub his thigh, to try to ease the spasms. He tried rubbing the area with his night splint, but succeeded only in jabbing himself in a tender spot. A small cry tumbled out. Frustrated, he slipped the splint off and tried again, but all that did was make his hand hurt.

Lying in bed, he looked at the clock. Eight. Claudia wouldn't be here till nine, and then she'd spend the first hour with Rainie. Two hours. Two very long hours. Maybe Linda could massage it. But no. It was Thursday, and she had the day off.

Over the last few weeks, he'd tried to get the other two to work on it, but neither Max nor Latisha—hired to replace Marina—were any good at therapeutic massage. They just rubbed randomly, without any real understanding of anatomy or human physiology, and therefore without any relief.

He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes. Oh, God! It was unbearable! His leg had woken him up at two, throbbing at first, and then stabbing. By six, he had maxed on his meds, and it was just getting worse. No therapy and no more meds till ten.

He gripped the sheets, closed his eyes and tried to breathe. In, slowly. Out, slowly. In. Out. In. Out.

Well, that killed a whole fifteen seconds. He needed distraction. Where was that remote?

He couldn't find it. Lifting the covers, he searched the bed. Not there. The bedside table. Nope. The floor around the bed. Not there either. Had he kicked it off the bed? Struggling to sit up, he tried to see over the end of the bed. Or was it perhaps underneath?

A sharp contraction suddenly hit him, knocking the air out of him, and making his eyes sting. He tried to remember how to breathe.

Where was the damned thing, anyway?

He was considering sliding off the bed to search under it when the door opened. Latisha entered carrying a tray.

"Breakfast, Dr. House."

"Where the hell is the remote?!" yelled House, totally uninterested in breakfast.

Latisha was getting used to House's moods, but they always took her by surprise before she remembered what Linda had told her. _If he's cranky, he's in pain_._ If he's really cranky, it's more pain than you can begin to imagine._

"Let me help you find it," she said after a moment, setting the tray down on the recliner.

Together they searched the room, finally tracking down the elusive remote wedged between the headboard and the mattress.

"There you go," said Latisha, heading back out of the room.

Sighing with visible relief, House turned on the set and began scanning for something to watch, something that could keep his mind occupied until ten.

Breakfast might do that, too. Hadn't Latisha said something about breakfast?

Grimacing in frustration, he realized the breakfast tray was still perched on the recliner, too far away to reach.

"Latisha!"

A moment later, she reappeared.

"Breakfast?" said House, conjuring up all the annoyance he could muster.

"Oh, sorry, Dr. House. Let me get it for you."

The six most aggravating words in the English language, thought House. _Let me get it for you._ They implied an inability to get it for yourself and a casual condescension on the part of the ineffable ass who uttered them.

Over the sound of his TV, he could hear Rainie's through the adjoining wall. She seemed to be watching an old movie. House thought he heard Spencer Tracy. Changing to TCM, the sounds of the two TVs merged. Sure enough. _Boys Town_. That ought to keep him entertained for a few minutes, although the film was nearing its end. He hoped something involving would follow. Otherwise, he'd be channel surfing for… how long was it now...? …one hour and forty-seven minutes.

Now, about that breakfast. He looked over the tray. Pancakes, bacon, melon, coffee. That was complex enough to keep him busy for a while.

Next door, Rainie got out of bed. House heard the muffled thud of her crutches as she headed off to the bathroom. About an hour after he'd woken up at two, he'd heard occasional soft moans through the adjoining wall. Over the next six hours, the moans had waxed and waned, but never disappeared entirely. Apparently, she hadn't had a good night either. And today the mysterious George Carter was coming by.

The water was running in the shower. With all the bars added, plus the shower seat, Rainie could just about bathe herself, but Latisha would need to stay in there with her just to make sure she didn't lose her balance and get hurt. House would be pretty much on his own for the next half-hour.

Trying out his newly operated-on fingers, he carefully picked up the fork and speared a piece of melon on the first try. Not bad, he thought. Next stop, Carnegie Hall.

**H**e'd been remarkably patient about the mysterious Mr. Carter, which hadn't stopped him from playing detective on his own. Despite his best efforts, however, he'd had very little luck. It was such a common name that he'd found 62 of them in the New York City area alone. Was it the George Carter who was a jeweler in the Village? Or the George Carter who owned a construction business in New Rochelle? Or one of dozens of other George Carters? And no matter which one it was, what did that George Carter have to do with Maureen Eloise Adler, girl reporter?

More than anything right now, he wanted to know with whom he was dealing, and why this man frightened and angered Rainie.

"Before he gets here, do you want to clue me in?" asked House.

"Not really," she said. "He's someone I'd rather not ever see again."

"Then why are you seeing him at all?" asked House. "Why even bother, if it upsets you this much?"

She looked away, and her eyes looked sadder than he'd ever seen them. Who was this man, and what kind of hold did he have over her?

"I have to."

"But why?"

"I have to know. I have to know why he's sought me out. I have to know if I'm right."

House understood overwhelming curiosity, but he didn't understand this. She was extremely upset at the idea of seeing this man—she'd had an emotional reaction every time he'd called—none as bad as the first, but bad enough—but still she felt she had to see him anyway. Why? And what did she mean, I have to know if I'm right? Right about what?

She looked at him, and read his mind. Then she looked down and spoke, her voice low.

"He's my father."


	82. Chapter 82: The Visitor

The Visitor…

**A** man pressed the doorbell. After a moment, a woman answered. She was slim and dark.

"Are you George Carter?" she asked.

"No," he said curtly as he entered. "I'm Georges Cartier."

From the outside, the duplex was one of those nondescript, brick Jersey apartment buildings. Drab, colorless, unimpressive. But inside was a different story. The first thing Cartier noticed was the glass, lit up on the display cases to his right. As he looked around the living room, more artwork caught his eye. Original. And, of course, the big, black, polished piano, backed into a corner by the front windows. It was an elegant and expensively furnished flat.

He approved.

**T**he pain in his thigh was slowly receding, thanks to an hour's massage from Claudia and two Vicodin. _Boys Town_ was followed by _Men of Boys Town_ and now _Fury_. Must be Spencer Tracy day.

From the living room he heard voices, one of them Rainie's. He muted the TV and listened attentively, but couldn't discern any words or even the tone of the conversation. So far, so good. Rainie's father had arrived about twenty minutes ago.

Turning the sound up slightly, he heard Spencer Tracy say, "I'll give them a chance that they didn't give me. They will get a legal trial in a legal courtroom. They will have a legal judge and a legal defense. They will get a legal sentence and a legal death."

For just a moment, his breath caught and he felt the beginnings of a flashback—an angry face yelling murderous threats and promising misery. He fought it off. Just a movie, he reminded himself. Just a movie.

The voices in the other room grew louder, drowning out the low hum of the television. Rainie sounded agitated.

It was show time.

**W**hen House wheeled his chair toward the living room half an hour after Georges Cartier arrived, the first thing he noticed was that Rainie's father wore "the look." During the minute it took House to go from the bedroom to the edge of the living room, Cartier never once looked directly at his daughter—just circumvented her with his eyes.

"Papa, c'est mon docteur, Gregory House," she said. "Greg, c'est mon père, Georges Cartier."

Ah, Cartier. No wonder he hadn't been able to find a link from any George Carter to Rainie. He was going to have to talk to Linda about her phone-answering skills.

So that meant that Rainie's maiden name was Maureen Eloise Cartier. Suddenly, House grasped the meaning behind her nickname. _Rainie._ Not something to do with the weather or a gloomy disposition. Not at all. It was an Americanization and a diminutive of the French _la reine_ or "queen." When she was young, someone in the family must have considered her their little queen. But this man who frightened her was all that was left of her immediate family, so she probably hadn't been anyone's little queen in a long while.

As his body wheeled the chair forward into the living room, his mind continued on its etymological journey. He concluded that every possible interpretation of her name seemed appropriate. The word _reine_ was not too far removed from the word _renié_, or "disowned." Clearly someone in this family had disowned someone else; either Rainie disowned her upbringing, or perhaps her father threw her out at some point. One more step on the etymological path: Not only does _renié_ mean "disowned," it also means "broken," which, he admitted, was not inappropriate either.

Yes, her nickname fit her well. A disowned, broken queen.

Predisposed to dislike Georges Cartier, House tried to set aside his prejudice and look at the man objectively. Cartier was large, both in height and in bulk. Not fat, just large. His face was square where Rainie's was oval, and his cheeks were ruddy. He wore a striped shirt over nondescript dark slacks, a new pair of loafers on his feet. He neither rose nor extended his hand in greeting.

Cartier eyed House for a moment, sizing him up… or down, as the case may be. He didn't seem to be impressed with House either as a person or as a doctor in a wheelchair.

It took only a few seconds more for House to make up his mind about the man.

"What, you're a cripple, too? How can you be her doctor like that? And you live here, in her apartment? Isn't that unethical? You're fucking her, right? Are you one of those sickos who gets off on women with scars? She isn't capable of taking care of herself, and you're screwing her? She really should be locked up in a nursing home or someplace. That way no one has to look at her for the rest of her life."

In other words, where she could be a vegetable. House's eyes darted to Rainie's face. She looked as if she'd just been slapped, which, emotionally, she had.

Cartier had managed in just a few words to be as insulting and offensive as one person could be to two others, and at the same time to hone in on House and Rainie's intimate feelings for each other and reduce them to their coarsest element. With that uncanny ability to stab at his daughter's softest, most vulnerable areas, Cartier became not only offensive, but also dangerous.

House felt cold anger hit him. No wonder she was afraid of him, if he could hurt her like that without really trying. No wonder she hadn't wanted to see him.

Pasting an insincere smile on his face, House replied. "And it's nice to make your acquaintance, too, M. Cartier. Rainie has told me so very little about you. Now I can see why."

Cartier looked stunned for a moment. Then he regained control of himself.

"Look, Dr.—House, is it?—I'm sure you're a nice man, but we're having a family conversation here, and I think it's time for you to… roll along… until we're finished."

Rainie cast a pleading look in House's direction. She looked wan and exhausted, pain and unhappiness apparent on her face. Whatever had been going on in here wasn't good. Not to mention the fact that House had no patience for bullies.

"I don't think so. For starters, this is my house, so you don't get to order me out of my own living room. Second, I am _not_ a nice man, as Rainie will tell you. However, if you'd care to check my credentials…"—he waved a nonchalant arm toward some plaques and clippings lying carelessly on the coffee table, where he'd not-so-carelessly set them, just in case he needed to establish his reputation—"I am, in fact, your daughter's physician. As such, I have no intention of leaving my patient alone with you any longer. Whatever you came to say, say it and then it'll be time for you to leave. You're clearly upsetting her, and I won't have it."

House had read books that described angry people sputtering, but he'd never actually seen it before. Georges Cartier sputtered.

"How dare you, young man!?"

"Well, thank you for compliment. No one has called me a young man since I was… a young man."

He tried the patented, foolproof House stare on Cartier, and, surprisingly, it worked. Within a few seconds, Cartier broke away from his gaze.

"Now, get to your point, if you have one. If not, I'll be glad to have Latisha show you to the door."

Cartier sputtered again, but this time he got to the point.

"_As_ I was saying," he said loudly, as if speaking louder would somehow be more effective and would make House go away, "if you could arrange it, that would be very much appreciated."

Arrange what, House wondered. He looked at Rainie, who was suddenly livid. He wasn't sure if her anger was directed at her father, or at him for behaving like an ass. Usually, it was him, but this time he wasn't sure. Was she mad at him? Had he just made a bad situation worse?

He watched Rainie take a deep breath, hold it and then exhale slowly, recognizing from his own experiences her attempt to settle herself down with biofeedback. As she turned her head away from her father and looked at House, he felt immense relief as she smiled and mouthed the word "thanks." When she turned back toward her father, who still hadn't looked directly at her, she wore an expression that House realized contained a warning, if only her father had bothered to look at her long enough to recognize it.

"But, Papa, I can't possibly arrange it," she said, faux innocent, and House saw surprise on Cartier's face. "Haven't you spent my whole life telling me I was stupid and worthless and incapable of handling anything? That I am a freak, a weirdo, an incompetent and any other pejorative you could think of? Well, I guess you must have been right, because my poor little brain can't possibly figure out how to do anything as complex as this."

Cartier stared at her, a sputter looming.

"Mais… mais, mon petit chou,1 I never meant those little things. I… uh… wanted to make you strong."

Now she looked at him coldly.

"Must have worked, Papa, because—guess what?—this little cabbage is strong. However, let me make sure you understand: I got this way despite you—not because of you. You abandoned me a long time ago, and I've taken care of myself ever since.

"Too bad your demand for money and your blackmail threat didn't follow a demonstration of concern for my wellbeing or some attempt to communicate with me over the past—what is it now?—ten years. Perhaps if you'd ever met my husband, or your granddaughter—before they were murdered—or expressed any interest in why your only child had been wrongfully imprisoned… tortured… and nearly killed… I might have a modicum of sympathy for you and your financial plight.

"As it is, hearing from you a scant two days after the announcement of my sudden wealth made the wire services didn't impress me a whole lot. Threatening to go to the press with a story about what a terrible daughter I am doesn't impress me either. Believe me, I've been through much worse and survived. You wouldn't know anything about that, though, because you weren't around at the time.

"But then, subtlety was never your strong suit, was it, Papa? Oh, and by the way, insulting my doctor hasn't helped your case. I think it's time for you to leave. Don't bother calling again. If you ever try to contact me or come here, I'll get in touch with the FBI, with whom I've gotten to be quite friendly. Trust me, they will make damn sure you never show up here again. And I believe they will be quite interested in talking to you about your blackmail threat should you ever again feel the need to hint that you're going to defame me in the press if I don't cough up."

She turned her head from him angrily, and found herself looking into a pair of intense blue eyes. House had parked his chair on her end of the couch, right up next to her, close enough for her to touch if she needed his support. Her expression softened when she saw him. She heard her father rise from the couch and go to the door.

"Mais ma petite Rainie…"

Red-hot anger took over as she turned and glared at him.

"_Tais-toi! Obtenez l'enfer hors d'ici maintenant! C'est tout!"2_

She flinched as she heard the heavy wooden door slam loudly, and was suddenly disconcerted when she looked up again at House, whose features were oddly tender in the face of her rage.

"If I'd known how lucrative this was going to be and how much fun I was going to have rebuffing avaricious family members, I'd have had my life and health destroyed sooner," Rainie said, sarcastically, to House's amusement. "I'll be sure to recommend it to all my friends and acquaintances."

A few seconds later, the front door opened again, and Wilson walked quietly in, just in time for the denouement. When he saw Rainie and House looking at each other, strong emotions on both their faces, he knew that he had stumbled into another private moment. He froze, his eyes on his damaged best friend, who once again was exposing a side of himself that Wilson never dreamed existed.

House's eyes crinkled and a smile played around his mouth.

"Ma chère Rainie," said House in perfect French, as he took her right hand in his left, holding her gaze steadily with his own. "Enough dancing. I can't go on like this. It's time to get serious."

His right hand, free of the night splint and once more under his control, gently brushed her cheek.

"Mon bras pressait ta taille frêle3," he began. Her eyes flew open as she recognized the opening phrase of Victor Hugo's romantic poem. Following the guidance of the poem, he slid his left arm around her frail waist, and lightly felt her heartbeat with his right hand.

"Et souple comme le roseau;4

Ton sein palpitait comme l'aile

D'un jeune oiseau."

His voice was deep and resonant and, like cocoa, hot and sweet—the stanza tumbling easily from his lips, lyrical and full of emotion. Echoing Hugo's words, her heart was beating like the wings of a young bird.

"Longtemps muets, nous contemplâmes

Le ciel où s'éteignait le jour.

Que se passait-il dans nos âmes?

Amour! Amour!"5

What passed through our souls? The line reverberated in her mind. What passed through our souls?

His right hand moved up to caress her face, then drifted over her shoulder, drawing her closer, his voice breathy and sure. She felt his hand on her back, his long fingers tracing slow circles underneath her hair. No longer able to resist the strong feelings that had overtaken her, she knew she was sunk.

"Comme un ange qui se dévoile,

Tu me regardais, dans ma nuit,

Avec ton beau regard d'étoile,

Qui m'éblouit."6

In her night, in her despair, he had looked at her. She felt herself melting. Anger wafted away, fear evaporated and nothing remained but this moment and this strange, complicated man. Leaning forward, she kissed him, his lips parting to hers, his passion enveloping her.

"Tu m'enivres,"7 he whispered huskily after a long moment, his warm breath in her face, his eyes fixed onto hers. "Je t'aime avec tout mon coeur."8

1 _Mon petit chou_: My little cabbage. Term of endearment.

2 _"__Tais-toi! Obtenez l'enfer hors d'ici maintenant! C'est tout!":_ "Shut up! Get the hell out of here! It's over!"

3 My arm pressed your frail waist,

4 Yielding as a reed;

Your breast beat like the wings

Of a young bird.

5

Still and silent for a long time, we watched

The sky as the day came to an end.

What passed through our souls?

Love! Love!

6 Like an angel laid bare,

You looked at me in my night,

With your beautiful starry gaze

That blinded me.

_(Translation by Patricia Eliot Tobias)_

7 _"__Tu m'enivres.":_ "You intoxicate me." Literally, "You make me drunk."

8 _"__Je t'aime avec tout mon coeur."_: "I love you with all my heart."


	83. Chapter 83: Cuddy's Guilt

Cuddy's Guilt…

**W**ilson still stood frozen in the foyer of the apartment, watching the scene unfold before him. Rainie sat with her back to him on the couch, House at her side, their lips touching, their arms entwined. Clearly, they hadn't seen him and thought they were by themselves. As they should be at a time like this.

Once again, he'd stumbled into an intensely private moment, and now he didn't know what to do. Should he slip back out the door and hope they didn't notice him? Or should he make his presence known, and interrupt them at a time when they ought to be alone?

As Wilson had approached the duplex, intending to go into his own place, he'd seen a large, angry man storm out. Immediately concerned that whatever had happened inside might be detrimental to House and Rainie, he'd ventured in. The last thing he expected to see was House reciting French poetry and declaring his love.

A part of him, if he chose to admit it, was shocked. But in a good way. He'd had no idea House was capable of that kind of romantic gesture… or even that the man knew French. Was it spontaneous on his part, or had he been planning it for a while? Given the angry man's sudden exit, Wilson decided it must have been spontaneous. And that brought up a whole new batch of thoughts and questions.

How incredibly quick was House's mind that he could reach in and pull out French poetry at a moment's notice? Plus, it was obvious from Rainie's reaction that she not only recognized the poem but that whatever House was saying somehow applied directly to the two of them.

He'd always known House's mind was sharp, but somehow seeing it function in a non-medical situation brought everything into sharp focus for Wilson. For the first time, he allowed himself to think of what could have been lost if, after all those beatings, House had suffered brain damage.

But, somehow, thank God, he hadn't. He hadn't. And the result was that he was sitting here, able to recite French poetry to a woman he'd obviously fallen in love with.

Wilson sighed—partly out of relief that House's brain had survived intact, and partly because the romantic in him was touched by the vulnerability his battered friend was displaying.

Suddenly, House and Rainie stopped kissing and looked back toward the door.

Oh, hell. Now he'd ruined it.

Startled, they just stared for a moment.

Then House began to laugh. After a moment, Rainie joined him.

"You've done it again, haven't you, Wilson?" he said, once the ripples of laughter had settled down.

"I'm afraid so, House," replied Wilson, mortally embarrassed. He really should have just slipped back out the door.

"So… what are you going to do about it this time?" Abruptly, House's eyes pierced him, and Wilson realized that the tone of his friend's voice had gone rapidly from amused to challenging.

Wilson stood uncomfortably for a moment, beginning to squirm a little under House's intense gaze.

Finally, he answered.

"I'm going to try to do the right thing," he said at last. "I'm going to try really hard to do the right thing."

Releasing a breath, House nodded.

"That's all I can ask for," he said.

Wilson looked away, breaking the gaze, and then quietly turned and walked out the front door.

**C**uddy sat in her office, waiting. Whatever it was that House wanted to say was important enough for him to make a special trip into the hospital. She'd tried to get him to tell her over the phone, but he wouldn't spill it.

She had barely seen him in months. When he came into work, he went straight to Diagnostics, did his job and left as soon as he could. Although she'd had regular reports about his health from Wilson, and had gotten a sense of things from her regular visits to Rainie, she wondered if he'd suffered a setback. Was his condition that much worse? Was he planning to give notice?

The House she once knew was determined, but after everything he'd been through, maybe he'd just given up. She felt a lump in her throat as she thought about the ways she had let him down. Through her own negligence had she destroyed Greg House?

Wilson was bringing him in to see her, but even her favorite gossip wouldn't tell her what was going on. Or perhaps, for once, he didn't know.

Snapped out of her reverie by the ding of the elevator, Cuddy tried to prepare herself.

Then the door to her office opened and in came House's wheelchair, pushed by Wilson.

It was a shock to see House, to observe once again the outward evidence of his torment. Cuddy had, unconsciously perhaps, forgotten just how disturbing it was to acknowledge the scars, the distortions, the lines of pain around his eyes—the aftereffects of evil. In the intervening months, her imagination had lightened the scars and softened the blows. Seeing him in person was jarring, confronting her with his past all over again.

House still looked thin, she thought, but better than he had, and his right hand, resting on the arm of the wheelchair, was dramatically improved since the surgeries. It no longer trembled. His face held a serious expression, but she couldn't decipher it.

"Cuddy."

"Hi, House. Wilson."

She tried to calm her nerves by toying with a paper clip. After wheeling House up to the desk, Wilson took a seat nearby.

House watched her for a moment before beginning.

"There's something I need to discuss with you," he said.

What? What already? The suspense was impossible. Was he quitting?

"What is it, House?" She spoke as gently as she could, trying to hide her anxiety.

"I'm giving notice…"

She knew it. Damn. God damn it.

"…that I have to step down from some of my duties."

_Some?_ Maybe he wasn't quitting entirely. Maybe he was just asking if he could continue part-time on a permanent basis.

"Why? What's up?" She said it as casually as she could manage.

House glanced at Wilson. So he _did _know what this was about.

"I can't go on as Rainie's physician."

That was unexpected. He'd felt so strongly about being her physician. Had something gone wrong in her treatment? Why hadn't Rainie said anything to her?

Momentarily thrown off, she blurted out, "But why? Is she okay? Is there a problem?"

House smiled an enigmatic smile.

"Not necessarily a problem," he said cryptically. "But then, you never know."

"Will you quit toying with the woman?" interjected Wilson suddenly, losing patience. "I know you love messing with people, but can't you see you're making her a wreck?"

House laughed. Cuddy couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him laugh.

"Okay, okay. Let's put it this way: I have a little conflict of interest issue."

Now Cuddy was intrigued. Rainie hadn't said a word, but then she tended to keep important things to herself, even now.

"Is this because Rainie told you she was in love with you?"

Was Rainie's emotional attachment too much for House? That must be it. He was running away, as he always had, from anything too personal.

"Not exactly," he said, smiling softly to himself in an unprotected way that Cuddy had never seen before. Something was different about him, although she couldn't put her finger on what it was.

"That's old news," he said quietly. "It's actually because I told her I was in love with her."

Stunned, Cuddy looked at Wilson, who nodded.

"I was there. I heard it. Didn't understand a word of it, except the _je t'aime_ part, because he said it in French, but I heard it."

He didn't mention that he'd seen something on House's face that erased his concerns and somehow gave him a sense of hope. If his cranky, battered, bitter, shattered—destroyed—friend could open himself up like that, could reach for some kind of future with Rainie Adler, then anything was possible.

The inside of Cuddy's head exploded. This was so far from anything she'd anticipated, she was literally speechless. French?

"Are-are you sure about this?" she asked, once she regained her wits. "This isn't just some emotional reaction to trauma?"

"Pretty sure," House answered, suddenly spilling it all out, sharing more of his inner feelings than Cuddy had ever heard from him. "Of course it may all turn out to be a horrible mistake. But it's been months now, months of trying to keep our distance—which in a small apartment is no mean feat, let me tell you—and it's just not working. We discussed moving to separate places, but, frankly, neither of us wants to.

"It's not fair to her as a patient to have a doctor whose objectivity is as compromised as mine has become. I'll be available if someone wants my opinion, but whether or not this works out between us, I'm not in a good place to continue as her doctor. I need to step down from that responsibility. That's all there is to it."

If she hadn't already been sitting, Cuddy would have sat down abruptly.

There seemed to be no stopping him once he got started. House went on.

"Besides, I figured it would be inappropriate for me to continue as her doctor under the circumstances. Sleeping with a patient is considered bad form."

Cuddy nodded dumbly. He was sleeping with her? Not as in sharing a bed, but as in having sex? Why was he telling her this?

As if anticipating her reaction, House added the future tense.

"And I do want to sleep with her, euphemistically speaking, if she's amenable."

Wilson just looked at him. Too much information. Way too much information. At least House hadn't given him a knowing look.

Cuddy gathered her thoughts.

"So what does this mean?" she asked, once the shock had worn off. "Are you coming back here at all? Who's going to be her doctor?"

"I'm not sure what it means, except that…" He paused thoughtfully. "…I care deeply for her…" He amended it. "_I love her_… and she seems to feel the same about me.

"Once I've finished with the current round of surgeries, provided it's all right with you, I'd like to return fulltime to Diagnostics. We both know I don't need the money, but I'm good at what I do, and I'd like to continue doing it. What I'm not good at is being bored. As for who should be Rainie's physician, I think Ajunta is a good choice, along with the rest of the team. I haven't really been in charge for quite a while now."

Cuddy felt he underestimated his contributions, a response that, in itself, was unlike the House she thought she knew.

"Should I ask if you're getting married, or is that none of my business?"

"None of your business. Although the truth is, we haven't gotten that far. Just that… well, it is what it is. And whatever it is, we're going to enjoy it as long as it lasts. If that turns out to be a very long time, wonderful. If not, we'll try to be as adult and civil about it as we can. For now, we need each other rather desperately, and both of us… well…" He looked flustered all of a sudden, as if realizing he was actually sharing his feelings with someone other than Rainie or Wilson.

Looking down, he took a deep breath, his face turning slightly pink. After he'd regain control, he went on.

"As I'm sure you've can appreciate, we've been dealing with some pretty major ethical issues. I have been her doctor up till now, and I've been trying to make sure I haven't influenced her reaction to me because of that. She insists rather vehemently that I haven't."

Suddenly it dawned on Cuddy that while his attraction to Rainie could be a very good thing for him, it was also still dicey, and could in the end be even more painful to House than his split from Stacy.

"I know. I know," he said, in response to the look on her face. "It's complicated. But no matter how this turns out, I'm in no position to be her doctor."

"What do you think, Wilson?"

Wilson looked uncomfortable. _Do it right this time_, he thought. _Just do it right._

"What do I think?" he said finally, catching House's intent gaze out of the corner of his eye. He paused. "I think it's none of my business."

A look of gratitude crossed House's face, an almost imperceptible sigh of relief easing through his body.

After another pause, Wilson went on. "House and Rainie know the risks here, they're both extremely intelligent people, and they've behaved admirably thus far. If this is something that ultimately makes them happy—and it certainly seems to—who am I to pass judgment? If anyone deserves some happiness, it's them."

Cuddy smiled, slightly reassured if still dazed. "Well, then, House, I wish you both well. If there's anything I can do, let me know, okay? And when you're ready to come back to work fulltime, we're ready to have you here."

She came around the desk and gave him a kiss on the forehead.

So this is where it was all leading, she thought. Starting that day she saw House holding Rainie's hand and crying. Even unconscious, this woman was able to cut through all of House's bullshit. Anyone who could do that had Cuddy's blessing.


	84. Chapter 84: Knock Before Entering

Knock Before Entering…

**L**inda had gone home for the night, the night nurse dismissed, and Wilson had been informed that from now on, he really ought to call, or at the very least knock, before visiting their home.

"Est-ce que tu coucherais avec moi ce soir?"1 asked House, lewdly, a comic leer on his face. "Baise-moi?"

Rainie laughed.

Then more seriously, he said, "Désires-tu être mon amant?" 2

She nodded her assent.

It wasn't surprising that both of them were nervous. Because of what they'd been through, the act of sex had been contaminated. But now that House had opened up to this woman emotionally, he needed to know if there was a way to transform his own horror into something positive; even more important for him, he wanted Rainie to be able to experience pleasure where once she'd had felt only anguish.

"You're sure?" he asked. This was the Rubicon.

Not wanting to leave it to chance, he had—to his own great amusement—researched how they could do this in a way that would be as easy on their bodies as possible, eventually settling on a side-by-side method that was often recommended for pregnant women and people with other physical disabilities, which certainly included both of them.

She inhaled slowly and let her breath out gradually as she nodded.

"Mais oui, mon cher," said Rainie Adler, looking into cobalt blue eyes. "Bien sûr."

On crutches, they made their way to House's bedroom, shut the door and lay down side by side on his bed, Rainie close by House's left. He turned out the lights. With the blackout curtains drawn, the room was completely dark.

He lay there, silently, for several moments, listening to her breathe and inhaling her perfume, a sweet, spicy aroma. After a time, he turned toward her, and reached out with his right hand. He found that she was facing him, and their lips met in a tentative kiss that grew into something more passionate.

His hands explored her face and hair as they kissed, and he could feel her gentle fingers lightly on his shoulders and chest. The absolute darkness made every touch a powerful sensual experience.

Her fingers drifted up to his face, following the contours of his cheekbones and eyelids and ears and lips and chin, rustling through the stubble on his chin.

"Is this all right?" he asked, breaking the kiss for a moment, as his hands slid lower, down her neck and onto her shoulders. She felt small and soft in his arms.

"Mmmm-hmmm," she whispered, the vibrations of her voice resounding into his throat.

He found the top button of her blouse and undid it, as he felt her hands leave his face and move toward his chest. As he undid the second button, her cool hands slid under his shirt, and roamed around his waist and back. He was vaguely aware that she was tracing her fingers along his scars, but instead being embarrassed or uncomfortable, he realized that it didn't matter. Certainly, she knew his injuries were there, and if she could explore them in this loving way without upsetting herself, then perhaps she'd come a very long way toward healing. Perhaps he had, too.

In all the misery, he had actually forgotten that human touch could be so pleasurable, and he felt himself starting to get aroused.

She lifted his shirt, exposing his bare skin to the cool air. He broke their kiss again to shift position and remove his shirt, tossing it to one side, and then settling back to continue finding and undoing buttons. Once he had unbuttoned the final one, he tenderly allowed his hands to wander across her soft skin, interrupted as it was by hills and gullies of scars.

Lowering his head, he kissed her shoulder and moved his lips lightly across her chest, and then, reaching around, fumbling, unfastened her bra. She sat up slightly to free herself of the blouse and bra, dropping them softly on the floor behind her. Then she nestled closer to him, and he gasped as her hip brushed his crotch.

Wrapping his arms around her, he held her tightly, searching for her lips again. Their kiss was more insistent this time, her tongue exploring his. She had been silent up until now, but as their mouths intertwined, he nudged his hips toward her. He felt her soft moan go through him.

His hands found her breasts now, and he circled the nipples lightly with his fingertips, feeling them respond and grow taut. Her arms feathered his lower back with slow circles, and he could feel her heart beating fast against his chest.

His own heart was speeding up, and his breath was becoming shallow. For a moment, he wished the room had some light so he could gauge Rainie's emotions and reactions, but they'd both agreed that, at least for now, the darkness would help them avoid having to confront the obvious results of their physical damage. His biggest concern was that she might have a flashback, that despite all their care, the act of making love might have become so harrowing for her that she could never get over what had been done to her in the past.

At that moment, her mouth left his, and he felt the loss of it acutely.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly, as if she had tuned into his thoughts and had nothing else to concern herself with but his state of mind.

He pulled her closer, and smoothed her hair with his right hand.

"As long as you're here, I'm fine," he said, realizing as the words left his mouth that it might be the most truthful thing he'd ever said.

"Mmmmm," she said, as her lips found his again.

His hands circled her and explored the small of her back until they ran into the waistband of her skirt. Feeling around, he discovered a button and a zipper. As he undid the button and slid the zipper down, he felt her hands doing the same for his trousers.

Again, they adjusted their positions to remove clothing, and now they were naked.

His hands moved lower, touching the backs of her legs, and then caressing the fleshy areas above. As they held each other close, he heard a sigh, her breath short and beginning to hitch with anticipation.

Another small moan escaped her, causing him to shudder. Her hands were on his hips now, slowly traveling inward, tantalizingly close. He knew how he was feeling, but he was unsure about how ready she might be.

Something else was happening to him besides sexual titillation. _Before_, he had loved Stacy, but theirs was a bracing, combative relationship, and he'd remained at least partly on guard with her throughout their time together, a guardedness that extended into the bedroom. Later on, he had gained sexual release from the occasional hooker, a physical response to a physical need.

This was different, and it was unlike anything he'd experienced.

From the beginning, he'd dropped his guard with Rainie, and because of that emotional openness, this _mattered_ to him in way sex had never mattered before. He'd always been a considerate lover on general principle, but now it really mattered to him that she experience not only physical pleasure, but also emotional satisfaction.

As they continued to explore each other, he heard her broken sigh.

Suddenly, she tensed and turned away.

Once again, he wished the lights were on, so he could see her face.

A muffled curse emanated from deep within her.

Damn it. He pulled back and waited, listening.

Finally, she spoke.

"God damn it," she said tersely. "I-I'm not sure I can do this, Greg. I-I wish I wasn't, but I am—I'm frightened by it."

Trying to still his own physical responses, he lay quietly next to her, not moving.

"…_and then one by one they… raped me… all three of them… raped me…"_

He was not surprised—far from it—to learn from subsequent therapy sessions that the day in the warehouse was not the only time she'd been raped. He'd already heard some of it during the trials, as she had described what had been done to her. The other thing—the abortions—he couldn't begin to understand. Given his own experiences, how he flinched during massages, how sensitive he was, he could only guess how terrified she was. And yet, they'd come so far, the two of them.

"Of course you are. So am I."

She said nothing.

"Rainie, can you hear me?"

He heard her inhale, then respond. "Oh, yes."

"I won't do anything you don't want me to do. I won't ever hurt you. You have to know that."

She was silent for a moment.

"I know it, Greg. Or at least my head does. It's these darned emotions…"

These darned emotions. He knew all about them. His own darned emotions were churning, torn between the increasingly strong physical desire to continue and his concern over her reaction.

"Do you think you can trust me? Trust me not to hurt you?"

"I want to…" she said.

"Shall we go on, or would you rather stop now?"

Again, she was silent for a long while.

"I have to trust you," she said. "I do… trust you."

Trust. Not something he'd ever been very good at. But somehow, she trusted him. Why, he couldn't imagine. Even more surprising, he trusted her.

He felt Rainie shift back toward him, her hand resting a moment on his chest before moving to his face and caressing his cheek, his eyelashes flicking under her fingers. She moved a little closer to him.

They explored each other's bodies a while, until he heard her breath grow ragged again.

Adjusting his position downward and shifting her lower body toward him, holding his hands on her hips, he trailed his tongue down across her abdomen, then down even further. He gave her as much pleasure as he knew how, her breath coming faster, and then he heard a deep, guttural moan.

As her orgasm began, as the tremors surged through her, he whispered breathily, "Rainie, I love you," just as she splashed over the waterfall of release.

She clasped his head, trailing her fingers through his hair as she recovered. He slid further up on the bed until they were parallel again. He rolled on his side to face her.

He was still hard and aching, but was surprised to discover that already he felt satisfied in a way he never had before, a little overwhelmed that his emotions could create as much pleasure for him as physical sensations had in the past.

Although she seemed to be ready for him, he wasn't willing to risk hurting her. He felt around on the bedside table for the condoms and the lubricant he'd ordered.

"Shall we?" she asked.

Beyond speech, he murmured "Mm-hm."

He carefully lifted her left leg up over his hip. When he entered her, the sensation was so strong, he could scarcely breathe. Their lips met again, and this time their kiss was surer and more ardent than before.

As gently as he could, he began to rock. He felt her body responding, her breath hitching and small moans of pleasure vibrating from her mouth into his.

When he neared his climax, he gripped her tightly, encircling her tiny body with his long arms, groaning "Rainie!" as the vibrations shot throughout his body.

When the blood stopped pounding in his ears, he realized she was coming again, moaning his name over and over.

They lay intertwined as their breathing slowed to a more normal rhythm.

After a few moments, they found themselves shivering from the cool air on their perspiring bodies, so once they had cleaned themselves up, they pulled back the covers and slid underneath, laying their heads down on soft pillows.

So now they knew. Despite everything, this was possible. Not only possible, but intensely pleasurable, and pleasure was something neither of them had experienced in a great long while.

But no good deed goes unpunished, thought House. He was reasonably sure he'd pay for the exertion later, which was, now that he thought about it, neither a problem nor a deterrent for him.

He wondered about Rainie, though, and how she was. Certainly, she seemed to have experienced joy. He knew he'd tried to give her pleasure, even if it is in the nature of males to be selfish during sex. Her psychological state was one thing, but how about physical? Was she in any pain from this?

He held her a little tighter, and felt her nestle closer.

"How are you fee…?"

She put her hand on his mouth, cutting him off abruptly before he could end the question.

"Oh, no! Don't you _dare _finish that sentence!"

He laughed, a surprised, relaxed laugh.

"Sorry. Sex makes me stupid. But would you mind telling me if you're okay?"

This time, she laughed, a slight giggle. He felt the vibrations of it in his chest.

"At the moment, quite wonderful. Thanks for asking. The endorphins kicked in some time back, and I'm feeling happy and relatively pain-free. Someone should write a journal article: 'Why Sex is Better Than Morphine.'"

He stifled another laugh. "I'll get right on it."

"Thought that might be your cup of tea. As for the subtext of what you were asking, we'll find out. I'm sure there will be consequences. There are always consequences. If nothing else, the fibro may flare up. It does tend to get annoyed with physical activity. Here's the question you should have asked: Does it matter if there's pain later?"

"Well, does it?"

"Not in the slightest. There's always pain later. What's a little more or less? Let's go to the giant tote board. This little tiny column is pleasure, and—oh, dear—this gigantic column over here is pain. Ooooh, pain is ahead by three lengths. That's nonsense—it's not a competition. I think the goal in life is to make the pleasure column as full as possible, no matter what's happening in the other one. So there's a bunch of pain in column B. That shouldn't negate the pleasure in column A."

He lay still for a moment, staring into the darkness. This kind of intelligent optimism was foreign to him, and yet he couldn't argue with the logic behind what she'd said.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you're a smart lady?" he asked, after a bit.

"It's been known to happen," she acknowledged. "Are you suggesting that's it's happened again?"

"Uh-huh. I think maybe you're good for me."

He heard a blast of laughter from somewhere near his left shoulder.

"'_I think maybe you're good for me?!_' You've been watching _General Hospital_ again, haven't you? Since when have you ever been so incredibly trite? Sex really does make you stupid, doesn't it?"

He couldn't help but laugh in response.

"So, getting back to this research project idea. When can we start?"

She lost him for a moment, until he put the pieces together.

"Research project? Oh, of course—the sex/morphine thing."

"I was thinking we could conduct a whole bunch of research on the subject. It might not be statistically valid, but we could start with a small sample—just the two of us. I'll be glad to be your guinea pig, although I think I'd look pretty funny with a stubbed nose and those little piggy eyes and that bristly hair sticking out all over my body."

A laugh started deep within him and burbled its way to the surface. He pulled her even closer, stroking her hair with his free hand.

Finally, he felt Rainie turn her face up toward his.

"Greg?"

"Mmmm?"

"I want to see you."

"You what?" Did he hear that right?

"I want to see you. I want to turn on the light and look at you."

He felt for her face with his hands.

"I thought we agreed…"

"So did I. But I want to see you. I want to look at you."

"Are you sure about this?"

"Uh-huh."

Turning over, he reached for the lamp switch.

"Last chance to change your mind," he said, his thumb and forefinger on the switch.

"Just flip the damn switch," she said, laughing.

It was a soft light, but after the complete darkness, it blinded them for a moment. When he was able to focus, he saw Rainie covering her squinting eyes with her hand.

"It's like ski slopes at noon," she said, blinking.

"The difference being it's not cold, and we're not going to fall down and hurt ourselves."

"Yes, there's that," she agreed.

He tensed up slightly. Now that the light was on, he was nervous again. Why did she want to look at him?

Her eyes were scanning his face. They seemed to be searching for something.

"What?"

"I wanted to see how your face looked after we made love. But more than that, I want you to let me see what they did to you," she said, very quietly. "I need to… look at it head on, and see if I reconcile in my own mind the fact that something so horrific brought me here to this place and to you. Will you let me?"

He inhaled sharply. Was she trying to find some kind of redemption in their experiences? There couldn't be any, could there? Except… except, as she put it, "it brought me here to this place and to you."

No one—except his therapists and Wilson—had seen the extent of the damage. Even he had never examined his own body.

Trust.

After pondering the problem a long moment, he agreed. He'd already come this far. Might as well go all the way.

"All right, but only if you're comfortable letting me see you, too."

He realized he also needed to know just what was there, just what the bastards had done to her. As her doctor, he'd seen parts of her body, but not the totality of it. Not all at once.

She looked down, pursing her lips, then gave an abrupt nod.

"That's all right."

He pulled back the sheet to expose them both. Not knowing what to expect, he was surprised at the lack of reaction on Rainie's part. She didn't flinch, she didn't grimace and she didn't shy away from what she saw. She just looked. The only emotion he saw on her face was overwhelming sadness.

With her fingers, she traced every scar across his chest and arms, before nudging him to roll over and let her see his back. He felt her fingers again, following the lines of each scar. And then he felt something else.

He felt a kiss. And then another.

Her lips grazed every scar, every burn mark, the site of every injury.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

Stunned, he didn't know what to think. Was this some misguided childhood idea of hers—was she trying to kiss it and make it better?

"Because I love you," she said, as if that explained it.

"I-I don't understand."

"Mon cher, I need to love _all_ of you. Even the parts you hate. Even the parts that connect us to that awful time. If I can't embrace the part of you that was injured, I can't really say I love you."

Her kisses continued as she rolled him onto his back again. He watched as she tenderly and slowly kissed each scar, up onto his face and neck and then down again. Her eyes were sad, but her face was peaceful, and she never hesitated, no matter how ugly the scar. She caressed his hands, and pressed her lips to every inch of his arms and neck and chest and abdomen.

Continuing, she moved lower, until she got to his right thigh.

She's not prepared for this, he thought, suddenly fearful that she would be repulsed. He watched her face closely as she grew near the large indentation. Her expression never varied.

Her lips brushed the edge of the crater, and then he saw and felt her place light kisses all over the scar. When she was done, she gently, very gently, barely touching him, rested her head on his devastated leg.

The effect on him was extraordinary. His emotions welled up and he felt hot tears press against the inside of his stinging eyelids as he tried desperately to keep from crying.

After a moment, she lifted her head and continued her journey, down his legs to his feet. She nudged him over again and kissed her way back up to his head. Then she lay her head back down on the pillow.

"There. Now I'm allowed to say it. I do love you so."

He rolled over toward her, searching her eyes for an answer.

"How…? How could you do that?"

Her eyes scanned the ceiling before looking over and meeting his. Her answer was thoughtful and unexpected.

"When I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia, I had friends—including Evan—who tried to get me to go to a psychiatrist because they were sure I had to be depressed over the diagnosis. But I wasn't depressed, and I knew I wasn't. I had known something was very wrong, and of the things it could have been, fibromyalgia was not that bad."

House thought back to the therapy session, when he'd run through the diagnostic possibilities in his head. He nodded his understanding.

"I wasn't depressed. I was grateful. It could have been worse. What the diagnosis did was force me to reevaluate the world. Some people I considered friends behaved badly, and the friendships died. Others were there for me. One of those was Jeff. Yes, I had physical limitations, but, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm also stubborn as hell. I decided I'd be damned if I was going to crawl into bed and spend the rest of my life complaining or sulking. There were too many things I wanted to do. Life's too short. So it hurt. So what.

"After a few years, I realized that my life had become so much better than it had been when I was healthy. I'd grown up, developed a sense of my own worth and was enjoying every moment I could. I remember telling Evan once that getting fibromyalgia was the best thing that ever happened to me. And I really meant it."

A crease appeared between House's brows. Was she going to go all Pollyanna about this?

She saw his expression and smiled.

"No, I don't think Thompson was the best thing that ever happened to me. Dear God, no. But I've survived it, and I've found you, and I'm here, and I want to go on with my life.

"I can either spend the rest of my life reliving that horror in my mind, in which case Thompson really does win, or I can try my damndest to do something constructive with my life and enjoy the pleasures that come my way. Which makes more sense to you? Wallowing or enjoying?"

He still didn't quite understand, and said so.

"Don't you see? By allowing myself to love all of you, I can actually be grateful for what's happened. Not glad, mind you, but grateful. Every single scar on your body—and on mine—brought me to you. How can I not love them, then, if they brought me to your arms?"

Now he got it, and it knocked the wind out of him.

Once he recovered his senses, he returned the favor, kissing every inch of her broken, mangled body, trying to follow her example and not let his empathy for the pain she had undergone show on his face, since he knew she was watching.

When he was done, he laid back down, with Rainie on his left, where she should be, and pulled up the covers.

He wrapped his arms around her and they fell asleep, his left arm around her and Rainie with her head on his chest.

1

"Est-ce que tu coucherais avec moi ce soir?" means "Will you sleep with me tonight?" and can be considered offensive, depending on the circumstances.

Although "Baise-moi" transliterates as "Kiss me," its actual usage is quite vulgar, and should be translated as "Fuck me."

2 House follows this up with the much more genteel "Désires-tu être mon amant?" which means, "Do you want to be my lover?"


	85. Chapter 85: The Ultimate Mystery

The Ultimate Mystery

**I**t was the ultimate mystery, how a human being could survive when logic said death would be better, how the human mind dealt with unimaginable pain, physical and emotional, and how he could use the unique knowledge he now had to try to ease the transition back to life of Rainie Adler, and perhaps help himself at the same time.

It was the ultimate mystery, and he had solved it.

Finale

Since the Bechstein arrived, House had played a little every day. And since Rainie's hand surgeries had given her back the use of her hands, she spent a lot of time at the piano, too, building up her strength and coordination.

House had been right—she was a gifted musician. Even now, having lost so much of her technique, he could tell she understood music in that fundamental way only real musicians do. The first time she'd sat at the piano, after her first hand surgery, she'd cried with joy.

Now, they sat together on the bench for the first time, and played a duet.

Next door, Wilson finished up a long phone call with Evan Schuster. After a few minutes of folding laundry, Wilson pricked up his ears, noting that something about the music sounded a little different. Maybe it was louder, or maybe it was something else. Whoever was playing seemed to be using the entire keyboard. He could hear very high notes and low, rumbling ones and everything in between.

The song was a simple one, but full of rich harmonies, with a strong emotional undercurrent. It was vibrant and compelling, with simple jazz riffs linking phrases. The song went on and on, building with each new variation.

He thought he recognized the tune. Once upon a time, he thought, House had told him the name of it. Whatever it was, it made his heart soar.

Wilson carried a stack of freshly laundered bath towels to the linen closet, and put them away neatly, returning a moment later with washcloths and hand towels.

The music continued.

Done with the laundry, he moved on to his living room, where he dusted a few objects and then settled himself on his couch to read.

And still the song went on, louder, then softer, changing and evolving as it progressed from a somber elegy into an exultant concerto for two.

He felt so good, he thought he might just take a nap. His eyelids closed and he dozed for a few minutes.

When the music finally ended, he stirred.

Oh, yes.

Now he remembered.

His eyelids grew heavy again and he began to slip into a relaxed slumber, a smile on his face.

It was called "Hymn to Freedom."1

**The End**

1 "Hymn to Freedom" was written by Oscar Peterson in the 1960s and used as an anthem for the civil rights movement. _House_ fans should recognize it from the end of the episode "All In," when House has finally solved what killed Esther, a patient who died 12 years ago. He sits alone at a piano, and plays, his feelings about solving the case (and finally absolving himself of the guilt over Esther's death) expressed through music.


End file.
